


born on a dare (but born ready)

by littlesnowpea



Series: happily ever after (not the other way around) [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Prostitution, Sex Work, Slam Poetry, Trans Brendon Urie, Trans Character, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 00:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14508750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: Patrick had done the math. If he worked five nights a week for at least six hours, he’d be able to afford rent and some actual studio time. It was fucking cold as hell, snow hitting Chicago early this year, but Patrick had to record the album if he wanted to move out from above the coffeeshop and do music for the rest of his life.Working in the snow was a miniscule price to pay if you asked Patrick. Not that anyone did.





	born on a dare (but born ready)

**Author's Note:**

> hoooooooly hell i can't believe i wrote this. this started out as "hey, writing my cinderella au was fun, what if i wrote a beauty and the beast one, too?"
> 
> and then this, jesus christ in heaven. 
> 
> so a few disclaimers: i am not a sex worker nor have i ever been one, so my knowledge of it is purely based on research. i firmly believe that sex work is legitimate work and should be respected and i will not entertain a debate on that. 
> 
> the rape in this is not described in any way. it happens off screen completely and it is not discussed later. it is implied. but i wanted to be safe, because i understand how upsetting it can be to even read a hint of it. 
> 
> also, people use problematic terms to describe sex work in this, as they do in real life.
> 
> special thanks to my cheerleaders on tumblr. i bet this isn't what you expected. 
> 
> title from 'explode' by patrick stump. on an unrelated note, soul punk is the best album to ever grace the planet thanks for coming to my ted talk.

Patrick could feel chords on his guitar by heart. He dreamt of piano melodies and deep basslines, and all he wanted to do with his entire life was make music. He had three quarters of his first album done, written on staff paper scattered around his attic apartment and badly recorded demos on his battered laptop with pirated music software.

He’d done the math. If he worked five nights a week for at least six hours, he’d be able to afford rent and some actual studio time. It was fucking cold as hell, snow hitting Chicago early this year, but Patrick had to record the album if he wanted to move out from above the coffeeshop and do music for the rest of his life. 

Working in the snow was a miniscule price to pay if you asked Patrick. Not that anyone did. 

\----

Patrick was five minutes later than he wanted to be when he made it to his usual corner. He’d lost track of time editing chord changes in _Explode_. It still wasn’t exactly right, but he had to put it in the back of his mind for now.

“Hi,” he said, bumping shoulders with Brendon as he exhaled cigarette smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “The sin tax on those is horrible and they’re bad for you.”

“Thanks, mom,” Brendon replied snidely, voice raspy. “You’re late.”

“I don’t see a timecard,” Patrick retorted, before shivering. “Where’s your coat?”

“I get more jobs without it,” Brendon shrugged.

“Spencer still out of town?” Patrick asked, and Brendon narrowed his eyes. 

“Leave my sugar daddy out of this,” he said. “It’s not my fault you don’t have one of your own.”

“Why are you being a bitch tonight?” Patrick asked. Brendon took another long drag on his cigarette, ash falling in embers down to the snow as he flicked the filter to the ground before exhaling. 

“Shane drove by,” Brendon said.

“I’ll take him,” Patrick said instantly. Brendon shook his head. 

“He said last time he’d call the cops if I didn’t go,” Brendon said. “Spencer’s not here to bail me out if they pick me up for solicitation again.”

“Asshole,” Patrick muttered. Brendon shrugged. 

“He pays well,” he said, as if that was all that mattered. “Snow’s too heavy to get much tonight. We should see if he’ll take both of us.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Fucking Brendon so Shane could watch and jerk off was probably the easiest way to split a thousand. Shane liked fucking pretty boys, but he liked it better when pretty boys fucked each other. And Patrick preferred being the one to fuck Brendon, because Patrick wore a condom so Brendon wouldn’t get pregnant. Shane never did, and besides, half the time he misgendered Brendon, anyway. 

Despite all that, Shane preferred Patrick and Brendon over anyone else who worked their corner. 

Speaking of.

“Where’s Andy and Joe?” Patrick asked. Brendon kicked a chunk of ice.

“Haven’t showed,” Brendon said. “They’re either down on twenty first or they got picked up. Hopefully for a job and not by cops.”

“If Andy’s with Joe, they didn’t get arrested,” Patrick said. “I bet twenty first is busier.”

“You can go,” Brendon said. 

“You won’t get arrested again,” Patrick replied. 

“I’m not trying it,” Brendon said. “Not until probation’s over.”

“Fine,” Patrick said. “I’ll stay here.”

“Don’t need a babysitter,” Brendon said sourly.

“I didn’t say you did,” Patrick said, before dropping it. “Is that Shane’s new car?”

“Yeah,” Brendon said, glancing up at the gold BMW driving slowly up the street. “He’s such a fucking asshole.”

“I’ll ask him,” Patrick said. 

“If he says no, I’ll still go,” Brendon said. “Don’t start shit with him.”

“Fine,” Patrick sighed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked to the car, trapping his lip between his teeth and leaning against the rolled down window. “Your moustache is nice.”

It was a lie. It looked atrocious. Shane smirked anyway and Patrick pretended he wasn’t absolutely nauseated by him. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” Shane said. He smelled like alcohol. “Wanna suck my cock?”

“More than anything,” Patrick lied. “Got enough work for the both of us? It’s cold.”

Patrick punctuated that by sticking his lower lip out and cocking his hip. Shane looked him over greedily before sighing. 

“I guess,” he said, as if it was actually a hardship. “You gonna make it worth my while?”

“We _always_ make it worth your while,” Patrick said, before looking back at Brendon and tilting his head. Brendon walked towards the car, hips swaying, an easy saunter as usual. Shane jerked his thumb towards the back seat and Patrick followed his unspoken command, Brendon slipping in right behind him. 

It was borderline uncomfortably hot in the car. Brendon hooked his pinky with Patrick’s, hidden between their thighs. Patrick felt a pang of regret--he knew Brendon hated Shane. He should have argued more, made Brendon agree to just let Patrick handle it. 

“You gonna let me do whatever I want?” Shane asked, and Patrick could see him smirking as he looked at them through his rearview mirror. Patrick swallowed back the biting retort he wanted to make and ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head. Predictably, Shane’s eyes went dark. 

“Don’t we always?” Patrick said. Shane smirked, hands tightening on the steering wheel. Patrick hoped Shane didn’t want to use rope. 

“Wish I had the time to tie you up,” Shane said, and Patrick breathed an internal sigh of relief. “But I don’t. You’re lucky I’m spending my precious few minutes with the both of you.”

“Thank you,” Brendon said, and Shane smirked again. 

“I think I’ll fuck both your throats raw,” Shane said, and Patrick tried not to wince. There went any vocal recordings tomorrow. “And then, if I have time, you can put on a show for me.”

Patrick put on his very best smile. 

\---

There actually wasn’t enough time for Patrick to fuck Brendon. Shane had barely come down Patrick’s throat, moaning as he choked, when his phone began ringing off the hook. Patrick didn’t know if it was his wife or girlfriend or other girlfriend, but Shane pushed them back into the car and dropped them back on their corner with two hundred each, more than usual for a blowjob. 

The wind had picked up and Brendon was shivering. He’d given up the tough kid routine and had his face turned into Patrick’s neck for a few minutes. 

Patrick slipped his fingers into the back pocket of Brendon’s tight leather pants and nabbed a cigarette and his lighter.

“Your voice,” Brendon said. His sounded atrocious. “You’ve still got vocals to record.”

“I can’t record tomorrow anyway,” Patrick said. His voice sounded worse, hoarse and scratchy and sore. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, handing it to Brendon without complaint when he reached for it. 

“The cryptid is back,” Brendon mumbled. Patrick glanced across the street. Sure enough, under the overhang of a liquor store, hiding in the shadows from the neon lights, was the same hunched figure Patrick had come to expect over the past few weeks. 

Patrick figured it was a dude. At first, he’d worried it was a cop, but when the guy kept coming back without any attempt at reaching out to anyone on the corner, Patrick had assumed it was a guy who either didn’t have the courage or didn’t have the money to pick one of them up but wanted to watch them anyway. 

Brendon found it creepy. Patrick didn’t mind. 

“I should go ask him what he wants,” Patrick said. Brendon snorted. 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Go over and solicit him, the probable cop.”

“Cops have more finesse than that,” Patrick said, and then coughed, rough and painful. “You coming out tomorrow?”

“No,” Brendon said. “I’m going to church.”

“Fun,” Patrick snorted, and Brendon bit him. “Parents?”

Brendon shrugged. 

“They think they’re gonna save me,” he muttered. 

“ _Save_ you?” Patrick asked. “They’re the ones who took your savings and kicked you out without anything. They deadname you. They don’t respect you. Why do you bother?”

“I still wanna see Kara,” he said. Patrick sighed. “Are you coming out?”

“Probably,” Patrick said, shivering. “Travie usually comes by on Sunday.”

“Tell him hi,” Brendon said. 

“I will,” Patrick replied.

\----

Patrick felt like garbage the next morning. 

Usually on Sunday, he’d take his guitar down the the coffeeshop by the church and play for a couple hours. He could usually count on some nice tips from that from the families and old ladies heading for coffee after the service. 

One gulp of water from the bottle by his bed told him singing was out of the question, though, and his whole body ached, anyway. He hoped he wasn’t getting the flu or something. The last thing he needed was to get sick. An urgent care bill would seriously cut into his funds. 

He downed a couple Advil and laid in his bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The coffeeshop was noisy downstairs, but their heater warmed his apartment, too, so it was a fair trade. Their noise masked his recording, anyway. 

His fingers itched for his guitar at the same time his stomach growled so he sighed, hauling himself out of bed and shuffling towards his kitchenette. He stopped in front of the coffeepot, staring blankly for a long moment before turning around and swiftly changing into jeans and a sweatshirt. He grabbed his laptop, headphones, and a crumpled $10 that was lying on the floor and headed down to the coffeeshop, desperate for noise all around him. Sometimes, it was the only way he could concentrate, and if he couldn’t record, he could at least edit. 

“Good morning,” Meagan said as he approached the counter. Patrick gave her his best smile. 

“Hi,” he said back, and winced at the sound of his voice. 

“Sick?” Meagan asked with a frown. 

“Not sure,” Patrick said. “Um, coffee?”

“For you?” Meagan laughed. “The whole pot. New wifi password is soybean.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said, and took the coffee she set in front of him. He grabbed a wrapped muffin from the basket and dumped the change into the tip jar. Hey. He knew how it was. 

He set up in the corner, booting up his slow audio program and sliding on his headphones. A sip of coffee sort of soothed his throat, and he spent a moment imagining biting Shane’s dick off until _Explode_ opened up.

It didn’t take him very long to get lost in it, rearranging chords in between bites of muffin and sips of coffee. He was close. He was so goddamn close, so, of course, that was when someone bumped into him, spilling coffee down his back.

He yelped, because that shit was hot, goddamnit, and yanked off his headphones, spinning around in order to give whoever had done it the death stare.

One look made him falter, though, because the guy looked horrified. 

“God,” he said. “I’m so, so fucking sorry. I’m so sorry, shit.”

Patrick took a longer look at him. He was hunched in on himself, avoiding eye contact. Patrick bet he was self-conscious. He acted like Patrick used to--skittish, nervous, unwilling to be social. 

The guy glanced at him briefly and Patrick saw a scar, travelling from his right temple, across the bridge of his nose, ending under his left eye. Underneath the end of that scar there was a telltale burn scar that stretched down his neck and disappeared under the collar of his shirt, interrupting a tattoo of thorns that rested where a necklace might.

“It’s okay,” Patrick said belatedly. “You didn’t get my laptop, so it’s not a disaster.”

The guy’s eyes were still wide and he was looking anywhere but at Patrick, fiddling with the ends of his unzipped coat, like he wanted to retreat into it. Patrick felt a little bad--he seemed genuinely uncomfortable to be even looked at. 

“Still,” the guy managed. “Your shirt is ruined.”

“It wouldn’t be the first,” Patrick said. “It’s really okay.”

“Thanks,” the guy managed before practically fleeing towards the door. Patrick watched him go, bemused, until the wet shirt sticking to his back became nearly impossible to ignore. He packed up with a sigh, draining the last of his now-cold coffee before dumping it in the trash and heading for the back and the stairs up to his apartment. 

Meagan was watching him with some amusement.

“Guy dumped coffee on me,” Patrick said. “Poor thing. He seemed really upset.”

“That’s Pete,” Meagan said. “He’s a regular. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t really do the whole _human interaction_ thing. But he’s a great writer. Sometimes I can convince him to do some slam poetry. He used to do it all the time.”

Patrick didn’t press for what _used to_ meant, just nodded and pushed his way to the back, to home. 

\----

It was just as brutally cold that evening when Patrick made it to the corner. Surprisingly, he wasn’t alone. 

Joe waved his cigarette in greeting.

“Hey,” Patrick said back. “Andy got picked up?”

“Nah,” Joe said. “Not feeling well. I left him at home.”

“Hope he feels better,” Patrick said, and winced. The cold air was the exact opposite of helpful on his still-tender throat.

“Hope _you_ feel better,” Joe countered. “Cold?”

“Shane,” Patrick corrected, and Joe pulled a face. 

“What a wonderful man,” Joe said darkly. “I’m thankful he’s not interested in our type.”

Patrick kind of envied Joe for that. He and Andy really weren’t Shane’s type--Shane liked the ones that let him fuck them. Andy and Joe were the type that got picked up to do the fucking. 

“How’s the album?” Joe asked. Patrick shrugged before stealing Joe’s cigarette. 

“Good,” he answered around a mouthful of smoke. “Gonna be better when I get to really record.”

“Soon, hopefully,” Joe said. “I think Andy is warming up to the bar idea. I said he could do a gym in the basement.”

“Do you want drunk people around weights?” Patrick asked, handing the cigarette back when Joe gestured for it. 

“No,” Joe said. “But I have to win him over somehow.”

“Fair,” Patrick said, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Wish we could do this inside.”

“That takes away from the romanticism of it,” Joe said. Patrick snorted. 

“Oh yeah,” he deadpanned. “So romantic. Every time Shane shoves his cock down my throat I picture him marrying me.”

Joe laughed, breath spiraling in the air. The streetlights weren’t very bright here, that was the point, but there was enough light for Patrick to notice the circles under Joe’s eyes. Patrick scuffed his shoe carefully over a patch of ice. 

“Have you worked every day this week?” Patrick asked. Joe exhaled smoke. 

“Yeah,” he said, and cleared his throat. “On twenty first. We’re so close, Patrick.”

“Yeah, but don’t burn out,” Patrick said. Joe sighed. 

“Wasn’t gonna work tonight, but Andy might need a doctor,” Joe said. “So it’s an extra day. I’ll take tomorrow off if I can.”

Patrick opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by tires crunching on snow. He turned, backing into the shadows a little, just in case, but the black Ford Escape was very familiar.

“It’s Travie,” Patrick said. Joe flicked the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it.

“Have fun,” he said, and Patrick rolled his eyes. Still, Travie was preferable to literally any other customer Patrick had. He bumped shoulders with Joe before heading to Travie’s car. 

“Hey, stranger,” Patrick said, leaning against Travie’s open window. Travie’s badge was abandoned in his cupholder and his dress shirt was unbuttoned. “You’re off early.”

“Pulled a morning shift,” Travie said. “Didn’t want to work on a Sunday night anyway. How are you? Anyone giving you a hard time?”

Patrick shrugged. 

“Shane,” he said. “But you know how Shane is. He gave me a lovely voice for the next week.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Travie snorted. “I can get him arrested.”

“He said he’d call on Brendon,” Patrick said, pulling a face. “He’s got girlfriend problems or some shit, won’t be back for a while I bet.”

Travie nodded. Patrick let him think for a second. He didn’t know if tonight was a night Travie actually wanted sex or if tonight was a night Travie wanted to rant to him. Patrick kind of wanted sex. He didn’t really have the energy to listen to Travie’s issues with the law he was paid to enforce, no matter how much Patrick agreed that weed and sex work should be legal. 

“I was gonna have you suck me off, but if your throat hurts it’s okay,” Travie said. “I can fuck you instead.”

Real sex cost more money but Patrick didn’t think he could stand to give head tonight.

“My throat hurts,” Patrick said.

“Hop in,” Travie replied.

\----

Travie was pretty much the only customer Patrick would kiss of his own volition. He’d kiss others if they paid, but Travie got one regardless, because Travie never argued about using a condom and wasn’t too rough.

Travie never felt like work, either. 

“Fuck,” Travie groaned, biting at Patrick’s neck. “I have been away for too fucking long.”

“A week,” Patrick gasped. “And you got Brendon a few days ago.”

“Yeah,” Travie conceded. “One day I want you both.”

Patrick moaned. Sue him. He liked having sex with Travie and he liked having sex with Brendon. Work could be fun. 

Travie kissed Patrick again, rucking up his shirt and thumbing over his nipples. Patrick felt his fingers dig into his pocket, where Travie knew Patrick kept his lube, and Patrick lifted his hips to help Travie get his pants off. 

“Wish this wasn’t in the back of a car,” Travie muttered. “This is public indecency, you know.”

“Yeah, arrest me,” Patrick said, and Travie smacked his ass, making his gasp. “You ready?”

“Been ready since I rolled up,” Travie said, and Patrick grinded his ass down on Travie’s cock. “If I come in my pants I swear to God--”

Patrick rolled his eyes but unbuttoned Travie’s pants anyway, inching them down until Travie’s cock was free. He lifted his hips for Travie’s fingers, mouthing down Travie’s neck as he stretched Patrick. 

He heard Travie fumble with a condom and then Travie pushed into him, letting out a long, drawn-out _fuck_ as he bottomed out. 

Patrick clenched down for a second, just to hear Travie swear, before tucking his feet under Travie’s thighs and beginning to ride him. 

Even if Patrick didn’t get off on this--which he did, because it was Travie--hearing Travie’s noises was worth it. He always sounded like he was being blessed by a fucking hoard of angels when he fucked Patrick, voice cracking until, as always, he couldn’t handle it anymore. 

His hands left bruises on Patrick’s hips as he took over, fucking up into Patrick hard enough to take Patrick’s breath away. 

Travie had to be close because he was chanting semi-broken pleas under his breath, just a litany of _fuck, fuck, shit, fuck_ as he became erratic. 

One hand grabbed Patrick’s hair hard, yanking until Patrick actually winced as Travie stilled and came, panting hard into Patrick’s neck. Patrick stayed still, let Travie come down from it, until Travie groaned and pulled out, letting Patrick’s hair go.

“Fuck,” Travie said, sounding a little drunk. “Fuck, I always forget how good you are.”

“I’m a professional,” Patrick said, and Travie snorted. 

“Get on your back,” he said. “I want to see you finger yourself.”

Patrick pushed himself off Travie’s lap and managed to obey. There wasn’t a ton of room to work with--Travie was a big dude and backseats were small, but Patrick could do it. It left him with his legs basically over Travie’s shoulders, which Travie took shameless advantage of, pressing Patrick’s thighs back until it almost actually hurt. 

“Let me record,” Travie said. 

“You have, like, a million recordings of me,” Patrick said. 

“Yeah, and I jerk it to every single one,” Travie said. “Come on.”

Patrick sighed. 

“Fine,” he said. “You’re impossible.”

“Hell yeah I am,” Travie said, retrieving his phone from the floor. “You need lube?”

“Spit,” Patrick said, and Travie leaned down to lick at Patrick until Patrick’s thighs were shaking a little. 

“Come on, baby,” Travie muttered, and Patrick rolled his eyes but bit his lip for the benefit of Travie’s video and curled three fingers into himself.

He was louder than he would be with just himself, showing off because he knew Travie liked it. Travie might be kind of a friend, and sort of a protector, but he was still Patrick’s customer and Patrick still absolutely wanted his money. 

“Yeah,” Travie groaned. “Oh, shit baby, you’re so fucking hot.”

Patrick made himself come on that because Travie loved it, and let Travie fall on top of him and kiss him again. He hauled his pants back up and tugged his shirt down, sitting up once Travie got off him. 

Travie retrieved a blunt from God knew where and lit up, taking a long drag before pressing it to Patrick’s lips. Patrick didn’t particularly like weed, but he was in Travie’s car so he did what Travie did. He knew what to do, at least, and, as Travie crowded against him, he tilted his head and blew the smoke into Travie’s open mouth. 

“You are the hottest thing I have ever seen,” Travie said, grabbing Patrick’s chin. “Fuck. I’d date the shit out of you if I could.”

Travie couldn’t, Patrick knew Travie couldn’t, because Travie was a cop and Patrick was a sex worker and neither of them were quitting anytime soon. Besides, Patrick liked Travie well enough to fuck and to talk with, but didn’t like him enough to date, if Patrick ever even dated. Their relationship was better as a business transaction. 

Travie pressed a wad of cash into Patrick’s hand, far more than Patrick’s price, and shook his head even as Patrick opened his mouth to complain. 

“It’s in the negatives,” Travie said. “You’ve worked all week and your voice is fucked. Go home, Patrick. Take a couple days off, alright?”

“You don’t have to--”

“I know damn well what I do and don’t have to do,” Travie said firmly. “It’s the first of the month, you gotta pay rent, and it is way too fucking cold for you to be out all night, baby. Go home.”

Patrick accepted the kiss Travie gave him and sighed. 

“Alright,” he said. “Thank you.”

Travie shook his head. 

“I ain’t gonna go on and be all _you deserve better than this life,_ ” Travie said. “Because I understand you are an adult and this is the best option for you. But I hope you can do what you really want soon. Go be a musician.”

“I hope so, too,” Patrick said. Travie squeezed his shoulder. 

“If I drop you off, will you go back home?” Travie asked. “Or do I need to drive you directly there?”

“I’ll go home,” Patrick said. 

“Good,” Travie replied.

\----

Travie let Patrick out at his corner after pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth. Patrick felt Travie’s eyes on him, heavy, so after a cursory peek down the alley to see if Joe was around, he stuck his hands in his coat pocket and headed down the street, towards the train line he took home. Travie’s car pulled away, evidently trusting him to keep his word, and Patrick would, if only because the $1500 in his pocket would be a magnet for the worst kind of trouble. He crossed the street, walking past the liquor store, and jumped, sliding back and slipping on a patch of ice as he collided with someone leaving the store.

“Sorry,” Patrick said automatically. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“‘S okay,” the man said. Patrick blinked. Was that--it _was_. The cryptid. 

He had a hood up and a scarf around his face, the only thing visible being his eyes, bright in the darkness. He held out one gloved hand and Patrick took it, letting the man help him to his feet. 

“Thank you,” Patrick said, brushing off the snow and subtly checking to see if the lump of money was still in his inside pocket. The guy fidgeted for a moment, shifting from foot to foot before letting out a breath in a rush of air. 

“Are you okay?” the man asked abruptly, avoiding eye contact. Patrick raised an eyebrow. “I mean...I mean, you’re a...a….”

“Sex worker,” Patrick supplied, because he knew his rights enough to know that cops had to actually catch him in the act for anything to stick. Not that Patrick thought the cryptid was a cop. 

“Yeah,” the cryptid said shakily. “So. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Patrick said slowly. “I’m fine.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?” the guy asked. He sounded genuinely concerned. 

“Lots of jobs are,” Patrick shrugged. “This one works for me. Is that why you’ve been watching us? You’re worried?”

“You saw me?” the man asked, surprised. 

“You’re not subtle,” Patrick said. “The others think you’re a cop.”

“I’m not,” the guys said. “A cop, I mean. I do watch you, you’re right. That’s creepy, sorry.”

Patrick shrugged. 

“Kind of nice,” he said. “What’s your name?”

The guy hesitated.

“Mine’s Patrick,” Patrick offered, and the man took a deep breath. 

“Um,” he said. “I’m. I’m Kingston.”

“Hi,” Patrick said, even though he was probably ninety percent sure Kingston was a completely made up name. “Nice to meet you.”

Kingston nodded. 

“Sorry,” he said belatedly. “For running into you. And stalking you.”

“You’re worlds away from stalking,” Patrick said. “But you can always come talk to me if I’m working alone or whatever. Company’s nice. I won’t even charge you.”

He winked, and Kingston looked away quickly. Patrick bet he was blushing. He briefly, briefly considered soliciting him, but he’d promised Travie and he didn’t want to piss off a cop, no matter how friendly they were. 

“I’m going home,” Patrick said. “It’s nice to meet you...Kingston.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Kingston mumbled under his breath. “Patrick.”

Patrick smiled at him before sticking his hands back into his pockets and walking away, back down the street. He was kind of glad Travie’d overpayed, even if it meant Patrick owed him, because Patrick was really tired of being out in the snow. It was barely one, Patrick could totally get a full night’s sleep and work on the album tomorrow not feeling dog tired for once. 

He heard a car pull alongside him and groaned. He glanced over and his heart sank as the gold of Shane’s BMW came into view. The window rolled down, but Patrick kept walking.

“Not working,” he said flatly. He knew Shane was scowling. 

“Come on,” Shane said. “I gave you a hundred extra last night.”

“I appreciate your generosity,” Patrick said sarcastically. “But I’m not working tonight.”

“I saw you get picked up,” Shane spat.

“I was seeing a friend,” Patrick retorted. 

“I’m gonna call the fucking cops,” Shane snapped. Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“Call them,” he invited. “Make sure you let them know you were soliciting.”

Shane flipped him off. 

“You’re gonna be so fucking sorry,” Shane shouted, before slamming his foot on the accelerator, tires spinning in the snow for a moment before the car took off, splattering slush all over Patrick. Patrick exhaled slowly. 

He probably would be sorry. Next time Shane picked him up, he was going to be rough. But Patrick pissed off Shane at least once a month. It was never anything he couldn’t handle. 

He sighed, rolling his shoulders, and continued towards the transit. He still had to get home, and leaving the area was his best bet, in case Shane did call in on him. Yeah, the cops couldn’t prove anything, but they’d arrest him anyway and Patrick would never see his money again, because most cops were garbage, Travie being the sole exception.

Whatever. He’d deal with Shane when the problem came up.

He mentally reminded himself to text Brendon about it when he got home.

\----

Patrick recorded rough vocals for _Explode_ the next morning, saving them before gathering his stuff up and heading for the coffeeshop. People surrounding him would be enough embarrassment to be very, _very_ picky about what passed his strict standards, and he needed it. _Explode_ needed it. 

Patrick knew there was a great fucking song in there. He knew it.

Meagan made something fancy for him, whipped cream on top, and slid him an extra cookie on the house. Patrick was lucky he knew her--and lucky she didn’t know what he did. Nothing killed kindness quicker than judgement. 

A quarter of an hour later, Patrick was mildly happy with the first verse. He drained the last of his coffee and was just debating about dropping $5 on another when a cup was set in front of him, tentatively, like maybe Patrick was a lion ready to pounce. 

He looked up in confusion and saw Pete, hovering a few feet from Patrick’s table like he wasn’t allowed to be there, one hand picking at his dark jeans, the other holding his own cup of coffee. Despite the warmth of the shop, he had a scarf pulled tight around his neck and a beanie drawn low over his forehead.

Patrick couldn’t help it, he gave Pete a soft smile and shifted his laptop to create more space on the tiny table, sliding off his headphones as he did.

“Is this for me?” Patrick asked, picking up the coffee. Pete nodded somewhat haltingly. “Thank you. For what?”

“I dumped coffee on you,” Pete said, as if Patrick had forgotten. “Remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Patrick said, pretending for Pete’s benefit. “It’s really okay.”

Pete shrugged one shoulder, averting his eyes. Patrick tilted his head, eyes flitting between Pete’s face and a small, battered notebook tucked into Pete’s front coat pocket. 

“Do you want to sit down?” Patrick found himself asking, before his brain could yell about how much work he had to do. Pete’s eyes widened, like he couldn’t comprehend the question. 

“Are you sure?” Pete said doubtfully, glancing around and hunching in on himself, into his scarf. Patrick felt a little pang of sadness. 

“Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Pete stared at Patrick for a long moment, clearly trying to figure out something to say, before taking a deep breath and easing himself into the seat across from Patrick, whole body tense. Patrick gave him a moment before charging ahead, since Pete clearly didn’t know what he was doing. Working the night shift had taught Patrick plenty about easing wary guys into a more comfortable place.

“What’s your name?” Patrick asked, taking a sip of his coffee. Pete drummed his fingers on the side of his coffee cup, glancing around again before answering. 

“Pete,” he semi-whispered. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Patrick asked again. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me? I could be a weirdo for all you know. I could be a stripper. Or a hooker.”

Pete flushed and glanced away, which Patrick probably shouldn’t find as endearing as he did. For fuck’s sake, he barely knew the guy, but as someone who suffered from low self esteem for far too long, he felt like it was almost an obligation to teach Pete confidence. Or at least how to fake it until he made it. 

_Fake It ‘Till You Make It_ would be a good name for the autobiography Patrick would never write about his night job. 

“I wouldn’t mind, even if you were,” Pete said. He thumbed over the spiral of his battered notebook and finally met Patrick’s gaze. “What’s your name?”

“Patrick,” Patrick said. He nodded his head towards the notebook. “You write?”

Pete’s eyes widened and he closed his hand around the notebook almost protectively for a moment before taking a breath and hunching a little more. 

“Yeah,” Pete said. “Yeah, um. Poetry. I have a couple books out--they’re not good, though. What--what about you?”

“What about me?” Patrick asked. 

“You’re--you’re in here almost every day,” Pete said, kind of in a rush. “On your laptop. What do you do?”

“Oh,” Patrick said. He fiddled with the cord of his headphones. “I--I’m writing an album.”

“An album?” Pete asked. “Like music?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “It’s not very good.”

“You’re working hard on it,” Pete said. “It has to be something.”

“It’s something alright,” Patrick said wryly. “It’ll be better when I can record it with something other than a shittier version of GarageBand.”

“I’d like to listen,” Pete said quietly, and Patrick felt a grin stretch across his face despite himself. 

“I’d like to read,” Patrick said, and Pete ducked his head. 

“I’m--sometimes I do slam poetry nights here,” Pete offered. “You’re--you could come. If you want.”

“Sure,” Patrick said, grinning again. “I’d like that.”

Pete flushed, thumbing over his notebook before very abruptly pulling it out, flipping through it before tearing out a page and sliding it across the table to Patrick. 

“Sorry,” Pete said before essentially fleeing. Patrick watched him go, still grinning fondly despite everything, before glancing down at the paper Pete had given him. 

_your hot whiskey eyes_  
_have fanned the flames_  
_maybe i’ll burn a little brighter tonight_  
_and let the fire breathe me back to life_

Patrick smiled for a long moment. Pete was kind of cute, once you got past the skittish dog thing, and Patrick had no idea what his books were like but this short poem was good. On a whim, Patrick dragged his laptop back towards him, minimizing _Explode_ after a quick save, and bringing up his very out of date web browser.

Google took half a century to load, but once it finally did, Patrick tapped absently over the keys. How did he Google someone when all he had was a first name and profession?

_poet pete chicago_

To his surprise, it seemed to work. Google Shop informed him Pete actually had three books of poetry out, and Wikipedia said his name was Pete Wentz and that he taught at De Paul, or he used to.

To his disgust, TMZ was the next result. The gossip rag was worse than scum to Patrick, but the headline gave him pause.

**Attempted suicide? Poet Pete Wentz crashes car, drugs found in system.**

Patrick hovered over the link. It felt gross, like a violation of privacy or something, but Patrick swallowed his morals for a moment and opened the article. 

A brief read-through made Patrick feel a little sick to his stomach and a lot sorry for Pete. Apparently he’d crashed his car after overdosing on Ativan. It had taken him a while to be cut free from the wreckage.

Patrick guessed that was where the scars came from, and maybe the uncertainty. TMZ included a couple of pictures of Pete before, and he was--there was no way of putting it besides _hot as fuck,_ not that Patrick really thought the scars changed much. Patrick had seen way uglier, and Pete seemed sweet on top of it, if a bit of a nervous wreck. 

Patrick went back to the main google search and scrolled back up to Pete’s books. He clicked on the sample for the first one, _from under the cork tree_., and tapped his finger against the side of his laptop as he waited for it to load. 

_you only hold me up like this_  
_'cause you don't know who i really am_  
_sometimes i just want to know what it's like to be you_  
_we're making out inside crashed cars_  
_we're sleeping through all our memories_  
_i used to waste my time dreaming of being alive_  
_(now i only waste it dreaming of you)_

Patrick had hardly finished when he frantically clicked to the next sample, _infinity on high._ His heart was kind of pounding in his ears as he read through it three times straight, trying to process every single word at once. 

He reached the end of the free sample and stared at the screen for a moment, not really seeing anything, before quickly bringing up Amazon and adding both those books and Pete’s other, _take this to your grave_ , and checking out before he could tell himself no. 

It was more than poetry. It was fucking art. Patrick didn’t know why Pete was hiding in a coffeeshop when he had something this gorgeous in real life. Was it just because of the scars? Was it because of the accident?

Patrick didn’t know, but as he drained the last of the coffee Pete had given him, he resolved to find the fuck out. 

He also wondered if he could borrow some of Pete’s words for lyrics. 

\----

“How’s Spencer?” Patrick asked as he came to a stop next to Brendon. Brendon looked at him through narrowed eyes before blowing smoke into Patrick’s face. 

“Gooooood,” he drawled, before winking. “He took me on a date.”

“Did he?” Patrick asked. “You sure he’s just a sugar daddy?”

“Spencer wouldn’t date a whore for real, Patrick,” Brendon said self-deprecatingly. “He likes what I give him. Besides, I’m just a fetish.”

“Would you still see him if he didn’t pay you?” Patrick asked. 

“That’s irrelevant,” Brendon said sharply, and Patrick let it drop. Personally, he thought both Brendon and Spencer had their heads so far up their own asses it was a miracle they were both walking and talking, but he tried to minimize his hovering around Brendon.

“Your cryptid is back,” Joe said, walking up to the other side of Brendon, Andy in tow. Patrick glanced across the street. 

“His name is Kingston,” Patrick said. “I think he’s just lonely.”

“Stop making friends with weird creatures, Patrick,” Brendon said. “Also, hi guys.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Andy said, kissing Brendon’s forehead. “And you too, darling.”

Patrick gave Andy a soft smile and turned his head for his kiss. Andy was a fairly affectionate dude for all the facade he put on for work. He was the one to insist they all traded numbers, just in case, and he’d walked Patrick home more times than Patrick could count. 

“Kingston isn’t a weird creature,” Patrick said belatedly. “At least we have someone watching us.”

“Right,” Brendon said dryly. 

“Stop being a bitch,” Andy said, ruffling Brendon’s hair. Brendon ducked his head. “You could call Spencer.”

“Spencer doesn’t want me, not really,” Brendon said.

“I doubt that,” Patrick replied softly. “I really do.”

Brendon shot him a watery smile and opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the crunch of tires on snow. Instinctually, all four separated, stepping back a bit, ready to run, just in case.

Unfortunately, it was the gold BMW again, and Brendon sighed before tossing his cigarette to the ground.

“No,” Patrick said. “I pissed him off, he’s gonna want me.”

Brendon gave him a worried look, but Patrick shook his head. 

“It’s fine,” he said. “Gotta play nice sometimes.”

Patrick took a deep breath before walking to the car. Shane had the window down and was smoking an enormous blunt, the smell of weed in the car overpowering. 

“Hi,” Patrick said.

“Bitch,” Shane countered. “Get in.”

“Fine,” Patrick said. He took his sweet ass time opening the back door, knowing full well that Andy and Joe were taking down Shane’s new license plate, but eventually he had to actually climb in and shut the door behind him, taking a slow, deep breath to calm himself down. 

Shane reached back and grabbed Patrick’s arm, rough and painful, shoving his coat sleeve up and very deliberately stubbing the blunt out on the inside of Patrick’s wrist. Patrick yelped and yanked his arm back as Shane laughed.

“Fuck you,” Patrick spat, pressing his ice cold fingers to the small, circular burn. It hurt like a motherfucker and Shane was an _asshole._

“Don’t ever fucking tell me no again,” Shane spat, and threw the car into gear, pulling away from Patrick’s corner too quickly to be safe. Patrick counted streets as they flew by them, trying to picture where they were going, trying to remember the quickest way to safety. He knew Chicago like the back of his hand, and this wasn’t the first time he was doing something dangerous, but it was still terrifying.

“I’m not paying you,” Shane said, pulling into a dark alley and shutting his car off. 

“Fuck you,” Patrick said again. “You are _going_ to fucking pay me.”

“Your payment is me not dropping you off at the station,” Shane sneered. 

“You will be blacklisted so fast your dick will fall off,” Patrick spat. Shane reached back and grabbed a handful of Patrick’s hair, yanking hard enough for tears to spring to his eyes. 

“I think you need to learn a fucking lesson,” Shane snapped, and his fist collided with Patrick’s cheek before Patrick could react. 

Patrick cried out, bright lights flashing in his eyes, and Shane shoved him back into the back seat, clambering over the center console and pinning Patrick down with a hand around his throat. Patrick choked and Shane hit him again, until Patrick could taste blood where his lip had split.

Shane’s knuckles were shiny with blood by the time he’d moved to Patrick’s ribs. Patrick felt a sharp stab of pain as Shane’s fist connected with his side, felt something crack, felt his breathing become much more labored. 

“Stop,” he begged, and Shane laughed. 

“I said you’d be sorry,” he grunted, punching Patrick hard in the stomach. “Don’t you ever fucking tell me no again. You hear me?”

“Yes,” Patrick gasped. “Stop, stop, please, stop.”

“Look at me,” Shane snapped, and as Patrick did, the punch Shane dealt him broke his nose on impact. 

Patrick was gasping for breath and fighting tears as Shane lowered his fist. Shane’s other hand was still wrapped around Patrick’s surely-bruised neck, and he squeezed a little just to hear Patrick whimper. 

“Can I fuck you?” Shane asked, and Patrick didn’t answer, struggling to breathe and keep calm and not make Shane angrier. 

Shane tightened his grip and scowled. 

“What did I say about saying no?” he said. “Can I fuck you?”

“Yes,” Patrick gasped, and Shane undid his belt.

\----

Patrick’s head was spinning. He heard Shane up front, laughing on the phone and finishing his blunt, and he thought he should probably try and run for it, but his whole body felt like dead weight.

His face was throbbing, and he wanted to see the damage but he didn’t think he had the energy to even lift his hand to feel around. It hurt to breathe, burning starting underneath his sternum and spreading across his chest, and everything, absolutely everything, was agony.

He wanted to go home, he wanted to go home and go to sleep and never fucking see Shane again, ever. He almost wished a cop would catch them. He’d go to jail. He’d go to fucking jail if Shane would. Patrick had never needed Travie more. 

Shane started the car up again and Patrick jerked in surprise, blinking a haze out of his eyes and trying to concentrate. 

“What do you think your whore friends will say?” Shane asked. His voice was far away, muffled. Patrick could hardly focus on it. “When they see you? Was it worth it? All I wanted was a blowjob, was it worth it? You’re gonna lose out on pay for at least a week, I’d bet. Fucking bitch.”

Patrick didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. He felt the car stop and Shane threw open the driver’s side door. Patrick lay limp until he felt Shane grab him by the hair and drag him upright. 

Wordlessly, Shane pulled him from the car and dropped him facedown in the snow. Patrick heard Shane race for his front seat and the tires squeal as he made a break for it, but nothing really mattered. He was fading, fading fast. 

“Patrick!” Joe shouted. “Fuck, Patrick!”

Patrick felt Joe gently turn him over and stifled a sob. He heard Andy gasp as he brushed Patrick’s hair away from his face. 

“Fuck,” Andy said. “Holy fuck. Patrick. _Trick._ What’s your cop friend’s name?”

“Travie,” Patrick mumbled. “McCoy.”

“Okay,” Andy said. 

“You’re calling the cops?” Joe demanded. 

“I’m calling his friend,” Andy corrected. “You need to call an ambulance.”

“I don’t have my phone,” Joe said, and Andy swore. “You don’t, either.”

Andy swore again. Patrick felt him pat Patrick down for his own phone, to no avail.

“Hey,” Andy said, before shouting. “Hey! Cryptid! Whatever the fuck Patrick said your name was! We need a phone!”

“A phone?” Kingston said, sounding much closer than Andy needed to shout for. Patrick cracked his eyes open and realized that all three of them were standing above him. 

“Yeah, a fucking phone,” Andy snapped, and Kingston rummaged in his pockets before handing a beat up iPhone over, unlocked. “Ambulance first, cop friend second.”

“Hurry,” Joe said. “We’re gonna fucking blacklist Shane. We have to. We have to figure out how. Talk to our friends.”

“Absolutely,” Andy muttered. “We’re on the corner of thirty eighth and South Pulaski. We need an ambulance. Our friend was mugged.”

Patrick knew that the paramedics would without a doubt know that was a lie, based on the fucking address alone, but he didn’t really care. It was seriously hard to breathe, hard to think. Everything hurt so badly Patrick wanted to cry, would cry if he could find the energy. 

“No cops,” Andy said tightly. “The guy is gone.”

That was the real winner, though. They knew they were coming for a sex worker. Patrick just hoped they were the nonjudgemental kind of EMS.

Vaguely, Patrick realized Andy had dialed the thirty eighth station.

“Hi,” Andy said. “Yeah, I’m looking for Travie? McCoy? Is he on duty tonight? No, it’s his brother, I lost his cell phone number. Oh really? Thanks.”

Andy paused, still running his hand through Patrick’s hair. In the distance, Patrick heard sirens, but those could be for anything else in the city. His fingers curled in the ice underneath him and he made eye contact with Kingston. 

Kingston looked worried, almost horrified. Patrick wanted to reassure him, wanted to reassure everyone that he would be fine, but he was so fucking tired that it was hard to form words. 

“Is this Travie McCoy?” Andy asked. “Yeah, I don’t care that you don’t have a brother. Listen. Patrick got beat up. If we give you the license plate can you get the fucker who did it? Will that get Patrick in trouble?”

Travie evidently was responding. The sirens were getting louder. 

“I’d imagine,” Andy said. “It’s the closest hospital. Please don’t get Patrick arrested.”

Travie wouldn’t. Patrick knew Travie would never do anything that might get Patrick arrested. 

“Okay,” Andy said. “Okay, thanks.”

Flashing lights were almost too bright to focus on as the ambulance pulled up. Andy and Joe moved back, and, after a moment, Kingston stumbled after them. Patrick tried to take a deep breath, but it _hurt._

“Hey sweetheart,” one of the paramedics said, voice gentle. “Let’s get you out of here, okay?”

“Okay,” Patrick mumbled, and she and the other paramedic lifted Patrick onto the stretcher carefully. 

“Did you fight back?” the other paramedic asked. 

“No,” Patrick said hoarsely. 

“Good,” he replied. “In the future, don’t ever. It makes it worse.”

Patrick knew that. They put him in the back of the ambulance and said a few short things to Andy and Joe before the doors shut and Patrick finally, _finally_ passed out.

\----

Patrick’s head was throbbing when he blearily cracked his eyes open. His immediate thought was a lengthy, expletive-laden threat towards Joe’s existence. Joe knew Patrick was a lightweight but that never stopped him from plying Patrick with drinks. Asshole. Joe had Andy to take care of him through a hangover. Patrick had no one.

“Hey there, darling,” Andy whispered, and Patrick took a deep breath before wincing immediately when pain began radiating across his chest again. “It’s okay. You hurting?”

“Yeah,” Patrick whispered hoarsely. “What--?”

“Your cop friend is gonna find charges that’ll stick,” Andy said. “He just left.”

Oh. Now Patrick remembered working last night, and Shane picking him up, and the beating, and--

“You called Travie?” Patrick asked. He was squinting, Andy a blur above him. They must have taken out his contacts. 

“Yeah,” Andy said. “We’re not letting Shane get away with this, Trick.”

“Did the cops come?” Patrick asked, concerned. 

“No,” Andy reassured him. “Everything’s okay. Brendon was here but I made him go with Spencer. Joe was here, and so was your cop friend. Joe says your cryptid was asking about you.”

“Oh,” Patrick said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, couldn’t make his mind settle down and _focus_ for fuck’s sake.

Andy gently took Patrick’s hand. 

“Your nose and cheekbone are broken,” he said. “So are a couple ribs. Your face is a mess.”

Patrick sighed shakily. Now that he was more awake, the pain was much more present. Every breath he took was stabbing him over and over in the chest, and he could feel his pulse beat steadily across his face. 

“You can go home as soon as the doctor looks at you,” Andy said softly. “I’ll make sure they give you some pain meds. I want to stay with you.”

“You have to work,” Patrick protested. 

“We have savings,” Andy said evenly. 

“That’s for your bar,” Patrick whispered, voice cracking. “You don’t--”

“I _do,_ ” Andy said, squeezing Patrick’s hand. “And even if I didn’t, I’d want to, Patrick. I can’t even think about leaving you alone when you can hardly move.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Patrick said, because he knew Andy well enough to know what was going through his mind. He blinked past the haze settling around the edges of his vision and gently tugged on Andy’s hand, wincing as pain shot across his ribs. “Andy. It wasn’t.”

“I should have told him to fuck off,” Andy said. “The second you said he was pissed, I should have told him to fuck off and moved us all out. And I didn’t, and I let you go. And--”

“And you got me help,” Patrick said. “You got me help, you even called the police despite the fact that they could have arrested you. Andy. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m staying with you,” Andy said stubbornly. “Please. Let me. For a couple days.”

Patrick could see arguing with Andy would be useless. Andy was more stubborn than Patrick was sometimes, and that was saying something. Besides. It was nice, sometimes. Company. If how he currently felt was going to be how he felt for a while, he might need Andy more than he wanted to. 

“Okay,” Patrick said softly, and Andy kissed the back of the hand he was still holding. 

“Shane’s a fucking monster,” Andy said. “If Brendon hadn’t been picked up right after you left, I bet he would have come back for him.”

“No,” Patrick said. “Never again.”

“Duh,” Andy said, then lapsed into silence. 

Patrick couldn’t see Andy very well, but he watched him anyway, tangling their fingers together and listening to Andy take calming breaths. 

“What would I have done?” he asked. “If Shane killed you? What would anyone have done, Patrick?”

“Nothing,” Patrick said. “There would be nothing anyone could do. Nobody cares about us.”

“I worry about you so much,” Andy said. “And I know it’s hypocritical, but God. Every time you leave could be the last time I see you. Joe and I, nobody really fucks with us. But watching you and Brendon leave is always the hardest thing about this job.”

“It won’t be for long,” Patrick whispered. “You’ll get your bar and I’ll finish my album and we’ll convince Brendon to let Spencer pay for college and it’ll be okay.”

Andy huffed a soft laugh. 

“I’m holding you to that,” he said, and Patrick smiled a little even though it hurt. 

\----

It was four or five days before Patrick felt able to do anything besides lying with his head in Andy or Joe or Travie’s lap, letting them play with his hair as he drifted in and out thanks to the painkillers. At Patrick's request, Travie had told Meagan that Patrick had been mugged so she wouldn't worry when Patrick didn’t show up, but other than that, Patrick had told no one else. 

Around the fifth day, though, Patrick wanted to put on headphones and lose himself in his album. He did feel a lot better, even though he couldn’t put contacts in because his eyes were still a little swollen and putting his glasses on was actual torture. 

But he wasn’t as dizzy and he could take complete breaths now, so that had to count for something. He hoped he’d feel better by next week, because he was all too aware of the lack of income he was currently experiencing. 

He fucking hated Shane. 

“I will allow you to go and get coffee with me,” Travie said, frowning. “Downstairs. The actual second you even look tired, I will drag your ass up here.”

“This isn’t your fault, either,” Patrick said quietly. Travie squeezed his hand. 

“I know,” he said. “You’ve told me before. And I know I’m not your babysitter. But I wanted to scare the piss out of Shane before he even got to you and I told myself not to. I should have.”

“You’re doing it now,” Patrick said. “I’ve never known holding for an unpaid ticket to take five days.”

“Yeah,” Travie said. “Because that’ll fix your face, babe.”

Patrick kissed Travie’s cheek. 

“Shit like this happens,” Patrick said quietly. “I accepted that when I started working.”

“It shouldn’t,” Travie said firmly. “You should be protected. And I know there’s fuck all I can do about that, but I swear to God it won’t happen again on my watch. If Shane ever shows his face around you again, call me. Promise me, Patrick.”

“I promise,” Patrick said. 

Travie nodded. 

“Your cryptid told Andy he could deal with Shane,” Travie said, somewhat wryly. “Not sure what he meant, but I said I’d pass along the message.”

Patrick had to smile. 

“Kingston,” he said fondly. “Don’t know what he means, either. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Travie needlessly helped Patrick to his feet. 

“One coffee,” he said firmly, and Patrick nodded, letting Travie walk him down the stairs and into the shop. 

Meagan looked up from the steamer and gasped, covering her mouth. 

“Oh, _Patrick_ ,” she said, voice almost breaking. She walked around the counter to stop in front of Patrick, looking at him like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “Did they get the bastard?”

“They’re working on it,” Patrick said. Meagan was a little blurry, as was the rest of the shop, and Patrick was pretty sure he looked half dead, but he tried to smile, anyway. Meagan squeezed his hand gingerly. “I’m going a little stir crazy.”

“I bet,” Meagan said. “I’ll make you guys some coffee. Please sit down.”

“I’m not going to die,” Patrick said.

“Do as the very nice lady says,” Travie said threateningly, and Patrick sighed but went where Travie urged him to go. It was kind of a relief to sit, if Patrick was being honest, but he refused to admit defeat to Travie at all. Meagan set two sugary coffees in front of them, and Patrick lightly kicked at Travie’s ankle. 

“Still not your fault,” he said. 

“I know,” Travie said. “I’m upset you can’t work.”

“I have savings,” Patrick reassured him. Travie frowned. 

“That’s for recording,” he said, echoing Patrick’s argument to Andy.

“Life comes before recording right now,” Patrick said. “I’ll just have to start over.”

“I could kill him,” Travie said, raw honesty in his voice. Patrick looked at him for a long moment.

Travie looked almost devastated, running his thumb around the rim of his cup anxiously. He was staring at Patrick a little desperately, and, not for the first time, Patrick wondered how they would have gotten on if Travie hadn’t met Patrick through work. 

If Patrick wasn’t a sex worker. 

It might have been different, they might have been really together, but that wasn’t reality. No matter how much they cared about each other, it wouldn’t ever work out. Patrick wouldn’t ever want Travie in a position where he’d have to arrest his boyfriend, and Patrick didn’t want Travie to be the cop with the sex worker boyfriend. Even if Patrick gave it all up, he’d been arrested for solicitation already. Anyone could find it, especially other cops. 

Patrick squeezed Travie’s hand. 

“Thank you,” he said. “For taking care of me.”

“Patrick, I’d die for you,” Travie said. “You might not be my boyfriend, might never be my boyfriend, but you are still everything to me. Okay? When your friend called me, I thought I’d pass out.”

“I’m okay,” Patrick said gently. 

“Now,” Travie said. “Sure. But after seeing you in the emergency room it took everything in me to not find Shane and put a bullet in his fucking head.”

“Don’t do that,” Patrick said. 

“I love you,” Travie replied. 

“I love you, too,” Patrick said softly. Travie squeezed his hand before taking a deep breath. 

“When you go back to work,” Travie murmured, dropping his voice to below the noise of the coffeeshop. “Please work somewhere else for a while. Even outside my district. Somewhere he can’t find you.”

“I will,” Patrick promised, and looked up as Meagan stopped at their table. 

“Pete’s asked about you every day,” she said gently, and put an envelope in front of him. “I told him I’d tell him the second I saw you. Can I tell him how you’re doing?”

Patrick smiled, swiping a thumb across his name, scrawled hastily across the front of the envelope. 

“Of course,” he said. “Tell him I’m sorry I missed slam poetry night.”

“It’s okay,” Meagan said. “I’m pretty sure what he wrote is in there. Next time. When you’re not broken.”

“I’m not broken,” Patrick grinned, and Meagan just squeezed his shoulder. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” she said, before turning back towards the counter. Patrick watched her go, resting a hand on the envelope, before looking back at Travie. 

“I have two cryptids,” he said wryly, and Travie grinned. “Pete’s a poet. I work on Soul Punk here and he’s usually around.”

“An admirer,” Travie teased. “Good practice for when you’re a Grammy winner.”

“Sure,” Patrick said generously. Travie took his hand again.

“You’re fading,” he said, and Patrick wanted to argue, but it was true. His head felt like it was a million pounds and the tension in his shoulders was bordering on unbearable. “C’mon, that’s enough from Mr. Social.”

“Fine,” Patrick said, but let Travie fuss over helping him to his feet. He slipped Pete’s letter in his pocket--he needed his glasses to read it and he didn’t really want Travie to see it, not without knowing what it said. It felt weird.

Patrick took Travie’s hand and let him lead.

\----

A week later and Patrick was fairly sure he could go back to work again. His contacts went in without a problem, he could breathe without waves of dizziness and pain, and the bruising across his face and down his torso had faded to light purple and green. He could work again--he had to, anyway. 

Andy had pretty much demanded he stay close and Patrick would never admit it, but it kind of gave him comfort. 

It wasn’t until he had finished putting his contacts in and was staring sort of unhappily at his still slightly-messed-up face that he remembered Pete’s letter. 

It was less that he remembered it and more that he caught sight of it on his bedside table in the mirror and turned around, suddenly too impatient to keep from reading it. 

He sat crossed-legged on the bed and carefully broke the seal, lying the envelope next to him and unfolding the unevenly torn pages to read Pete’s near-illegible scrawl. 

_stuck in the jet wash_  
_bad trip i couldn't get off_  
_and maybe i bit off more than i could chew_  
_and overhead of the aqua blue_  
_fall to your knees bring on the rapture_  
_blessed be the boys time can't capture_  
_on film or between the sheets_  
_i always fall from your window_  
_to the pitch black streets_

 

_and in the end_  
_i'd do it all again_

Patrick sat still for a full five minutes after he’d finished reading Pete’s poem. The words almost reverberated around his head, bouncing back and forth until he could hardly breathe again, like his ribs were still busted and he was choking on air. 

He stood quickly without a clear idea of what he was doing, letting his feet carry him down the stairs and into the coffeeshop without his express input. He hesitated in the doorway, instinctively returning Meagan’s soft grin, heart leaping in his throat when his gaze landed on Pete, sitting at Patrick’s usual table, scribbling away in a notebook. 

Patrick didn’t wait for Pete to see him, didn’t wait for an invitation or anything of the sort, just crossed the shop and sat across from him, waiting for him to look up.

Eventually, he did, apparently realizing he was being stared at. He had an uncertain, almost frightened look on his face, but as soon as he recognized Patrick, it was like every bit of it melted away. 

“Patrick!” he said, and he sounded delighted, sounded almost _thrilled_ , and Patrick couldn’t help but smile at him. “You’re okay! I was so worried. Meagan said she’d seen you and you were really hurt. You look better.”

“I’m better,” Patrick said quietly. “I’m sorry I missed your performance.”

Pete waved his hand dismissively, ink smudged across the side of his palm. 

“I’ll do another,” he said. “I’m just happy you’re okay.”

Patrick leaned forward and put Pete’s poem on the table between them. Pete’s eyes flickered to it and he faltered a moment, hunching over self-consciously. Patrick took a deep breath.

“This is the most beautiful thing I have ever read,” he said, and Pete’s eyes widened. “I think this is one of my favorite poems ever. Did you perform this?”

Pete nodded, eyes still huge and locked on Patrick. Patrick swallowed. 

“You’re really good,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Like, really good. Thank you for showing it to me, I can’t believe I’ve met someone as good as you.”

Pete opened his mouth before shutting it quickly, glancing down at his notebook before scribbling something. His knuckles were white on his pen and he looked back up at Patrick, uncertainty written all over his face. 

Patrick waited as Pete made several aborted efforts to speak until finally managing it.

“Thank you,” Pete said, and his voice was practically inaudible, but Patrick still heard it. “You--it’s your turn.”

“My turn?” Patrick asked, and Pete nodded. “For what?”

“You--” Pete said, before taking a deep breath. “I want to hear your music.”

Patrick blinked. That was not where he thought that was going to go. Pete flushed and he glanced away from Patrick, wincing like he hated himself for saying anything at all. 

“Um,” Patrick said. “It’s not--it’s not done, but if you don’t mind--pretending it isn’t shitty, sure.”

“I doubt it’s shitty,” Pete said, voice so full of raw sincerity Patrick felt a little off-kilter. He felt his own cheeks heat up and he was grinning before he could help himself. 

“Um,” Patrick said again. _Follow me_ was on the tip of his tongue, but it seemed weird to invite Pete to his apartment, so he changed his mind. “Wait here?”

“You’re gonna show me?” Pete asked, sounding surprised. Patrick wondered how many people had strung him along for him to be _surprised_ at Patrick keeping his word. 

“You have to promise not to judge too hard,” Patrick said. 

“I don’t think I could ever judge you,” Pete said, the honestly back in his voice. Patrick flushed again before sending Pete a grin. 

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Before he could talk himself out of it, he headed back up to his apartment and grabbed his laptop, heading back downstairs, a refrain of _what are you doing, what are you doing, WHAT ARE YOU DOING_ , loud in his head. 

He didn’t show his music to anyone, not until it was finished, and this was most certainly unfinished. What the hell was he doing?

Pete was tapping his pen against his notebook, eyes on the door Patrick came in and out of, like he was waiting on the edge of his seat for Patrick to return. As he noticed Patrick approaching, he lit up, sitting up straighter and shoving his poor notebook back in his pocket. Patrick felt a flare of nervousness coil in his stomach and he swallowed, adjusting his grip on his laptop. 

“Okay,” Patrick said, sitting at the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the clock on the wall of the shop. Four thirty. The sun was setting. He needed to be out by 7 if he wanted to make any money.

“Okay,” Pete echoed. Patrick sighed. 

“It’s really rough,” he said, and Pete shrugged. 

“Everything I write is rough,” he said. “You like it anyway.”

Patrick cracked a smile before opening his laptop and pulling up his album. He hovered over the track listing--his mind was utterly blank. Which one? Which shitty, half-done track did he dare to show to someone else?

He clicked on _Explode_ before he’d really thought about it and handed the headphones to Pete. He sat down again and suddenly understood Pete’s pen tapping. He was halfway ready to grab the pen himself, but settled for bouncing his leg a little, avoiding watching Pete _hearing his music_ , God, what was he thinking?

Pete had his eyes closed, hands holding onto the headphones. There was a tiny crease in between his eyes and Patrick tried not to bite at the skin around his nails. This was such a bad idea. 

It seemed like Patrick blinked and Pete was done, picking up one side of the headphones and resting it behind his ear before fixing a surprisingly even look on Patrick. 

“Like I said,” Patrick began, all in a rush. “It’s--”

“Amazing,” Pete interrupted, sounding so sincere it almost hurt. “Genuinely, genuinely amazing. It’s criminal that you haven’t been signed by anyone. Have you sent this out?”

“Um,” Patrick said. “Not--not yet? I’m saving money for studio time so I can get a better recording.”

“What do you mean, a better recording?” Pete asked. Patrick blinked. This was the most he’d ever heard Pete speak without stuttering or drawing in on himself. The thought that it was Patrick’s terrible music that might have caused that--Patrick didn’t want to think too hard about it.

“Like,” Patrick said. “Like not on my terrible $3 mic on my shitty laptop.”

“If you recorded this with bad equipment,” Pete said. “Then there’s no way you won’t be picked up when it’s professionally done.”

Patrick felt his cheeks heat up. For once, it was him that was speechless, staring at Pete kind of helplessly. It wasn’t hard to tell that Pete meant every word of what he said, but as for believing it--Patrick doubted it. 

“Um,” Patrick said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“Do you have more?” Pete asked. “I mean, when do you have to leave? You--you have work, right? You work evenings?”

There was a weird, weird tone to Pete’s voice, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how, but Patrick didn’t focus on that too much. He was already on red alert that anyone had noticed he worked evenings at all, even if they assumed it was a legal job, so he tried to ignore it and focus on the rest of Pete’s question. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I--I have to leave by 7. There’s more. But if you listen to the rest of this then you have to give me something to read or I might lose my mind.”

He punctuated that with a small grin that Pete almost instantly returned, and Pete pulled his notebook out again, flipping through the pages until he evidently settled on something. 

“You can read from here to the end, if you want,” he offered, sliding the notebook across the table. “If you can read my handwriting.”

“I’ve never had an issue reading your writing,” Patrick said, and hoped Pete knew he meant both the handwriting and the actual writing. It was true. Patrick would be quite happy to read Pete’s writing for the rest of forever. 

“Okay,” Pete said, and Patrick grinned again.

“Okay,” he agreed. Pete put the headphones back on and Patrick picked the notebook up and took a deep breath.

\---

Going back to work was hard.

A lot of Patrick wanted to stay in the coffeeshop with Pete and coerce more poetry out of him. He’d almost lost track of time. The coffeeshop was warm and Pete made him laugh. Evidently Patrick’s music had kind of broken Pete’s shell a little, which, if Patrick’s music had one use he was glad for it.

A little of Patrick was afraid, as much as he absolutely hated to admit it to himself. He guessed anyone would be afraid to return to work after getting--getting _assaulted_ , even if they worked an everyday job, but if Patrick worked an everyday job he could call the police if Shane showed back up. All Patrick could do was run.

He knew he had Andy and Joe and he was fairly sure Travie would be close by, but his heart was still beating erratically as he climbed the stairs out of the subway station and into the light snowfall. Flakes clung to his lashes as he walked, and he took slow, deep breaths of icy air. 

Out of habit, he glanced across the street, but Kingston wasn’t there. Patrick wasn’t sure if he’d ever show back up, but he hoped so. At least it was someone to talk to if everyone else got picked up. 

“Hey,” Andy said softly, and Patrick returned his hug, tucking his face into Andy’s shoulder for a moment before stepping back. Andy looked him over critically before sighing. 

“I want to babysit you,” he said, and Patrick smiled a little. 

“I know,” he said. “I’m better.”

“I know,” Andy echoed. “But still.”

“Where’s everyone?” Patrick asked, sticking his hands in his pockets. Andy was still looking at him, tracing the fading bruises with his eyes. 

“Working,” Andy said. “Joe got picked up a while ago, Brendon just got picked up.”

“And you?” Patrick asked. Andy bit his lip. “Thank you.”

Andy kissed Patrick’s forehead. 

“Shane hasn’t showed,” he said.

“What about Kingston?” Patrick asked. 

“He’s been here on and off,” Andy said. “He was really worried about you. He said he could take care of Shane.”

“Did he?” Patrick asked. Andy shrugged. 

“Shane hasn’t been by since,” he said wryly. “I didn’t ask too many questions.”

Patrick laughed. A comfortable silence lapsed between them, both keeping an eye on the road. Patrick knew Andy had a handful of regulars, and Patrick did too. He didn’t know if his couple weeks off would have scared them away or not. He hoped not. 

Patrick watched a car drive up and Andy squeezed his hand. 

“Go,” Patrick said. “If Shane shows up I’ll run. I promise.”

“Please,” Andy said, before straightening his shoulders and heading to the car. Patrick heard the tone of his voice, confident like he knew that sort of customer liked, before Andy opened the door and got in the car. 

It drove off, Patrick watching it, and Patrick was left alone in the glow of the streetlight. 

He was a little nervous.

Okay, a lot. He was suddenly aware that he was alone, like _really_ alone. If Shane did show up, if he couldn’t outrun Shane--there was nobody. 

Patrick tried to push it to the back of his mind. He had to work, no matter how scary he found it. He couldn’t hide forever. He’d used some of his recording money and he had to replenish it. 

“I’ve been worried about you,” someone said from behind him. Patrick yelped and jumped before whirling around to come face-to-face with Kingston. Kingston winced. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Patrick said after he got his breath back. “I’m also okay. Sorry I scared you.”

“It’s not your fault!” Kingston said surprisingly fiercely. “What he did wasn’t right.”

Patrick was starting to realize that the deep, deep tone of Kingston’s voice was as false as his name. Patrick didn’t know why Kingston was hiding, or if he should worry about it, though. 

“Sometimes, bad shit happens,” Patrick said. “It could have been worse.”

Patrick couldn’t see Kingston’s face, the scarf and hood drawn up as usual, but based on his body language, he wasn’t happy with that reasoning. Patrick ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his coat before tilting his head and staring at Kingston. 

“What did you mean,” Patrick began. “When you said you could deal with Shane?”

He could just see Kingston blink in surprise at the question, before Kingston cleared his throat. 

“I have,” he said. “I have friends. In high places. Or low places, really. He shouldn’t get away with that.”

“He got arrested,” Patrick said. Kingston shook his head. 

“He deserves worse than that,” Kingston said firmly. “All I did was provide a means.”

“You what?” Patrick asked incredulously. “Did you—did you really send your friends after him?”

Kingston shrugged. 

“They owe me,” he said. “Lots and lots of favors. I just cashed in one. It didn’t take too much convincing when they heard my reasoning.”

“Should I be afraid of you?” Patrick asked. 

“I hope you’re not,” Kingston said. 

“That’s not your real voice,” Patrick said. “And that’s not your name. Are you ever gonna tell me who you are?”

“Maybe one day,” Kingston said. “When I know you won’t hate me.”

“It takes a lot for me to hate someone, Kingston,” Patrick said. “I don’t think anything could make me hate you.”

Kingston seemed to be struggling for a response when a car pulled up. Patrick glanced at it, watched the driver roll down the window and make the usual gesture, then looked back at Kingston. 

“I’ll be back,” he said. 

“I’ll be here,” Kingston replied. 

—-

It was fairly easy to get back into the swing of things, so to speak. It took a couple weeks, but the bruising was finally gone and Patrick had regained enough confidence and courage to start working for real instead of passively waiting. 

The best part, though, wasn’t even work. It was daytime, where Patrick would haul himself out of bed and go down to the coffeeshop, where Pete saved him a spot and they worked together, side by side. 

Sometimes, Patrick caught himself watching Pete more than paying attention to his own work. He couldn’t help it. Pete got so intensely focused when he worked, staring at his notebook and furiously writing so much he seemed to forget every insecurity he had. When he focused on writing, he stopped carrying himself carefully, stopped worrying and holding his scarf or his jacket up over his neck, stopped hunching over like he hated the space he occupied.

Patrick liked it best when Pete stopped looking like he couldn’t stand himself.

“Ow,” Patrick grumbled as Pete poked him in the ribs. It didn’t hurt, it was all for show, but Pete pet down his side anyway. He slid off his headphones and pushed his glasses further up on his face, raising an eyebrow at Pete. 

Pete was grinning, a sort of unabashed and eager grin that reminded Patrick that Pete was a whole, real person under his three coats and long scarf and unhappiness. Patrick grinned back because he couldn’t help himself, never could, really. 

Patrick didn’t really want to examine that too much. 

“What are you working on?” Pete asked. 

“A crappy song,” Patrick replied. 

Pete _hmmed,_ playing with the edges of his notebook. Patrick watched him a moment before sighing, taking off his headphones and sliding his laptop over to Pete.

Pete lit up like Patrick had handed him the keys to the fucking universe and handed over his notebook with zero reservations. Patrick had a _lot_ of reservations, but Pete seemed to be able to knock them all down out of sheer determination and willpower. Patrick was also apparently powerless when it came to Pete.

Patrick really, _really_ didn’t want to examine that too much. Instead, he pulled Pete’s notebook forward and rested his chin on his hand as he read. 

_i’ve got troubled thoughts_  
_and the self esteem_  
_to match_

_what a catch_

That kind of made Patrick’s heart hurt, so he turned the page. This one was covered in scratch-outs and scribbles in the margins and FUCK on the top in all caps, gone over so many times with Pete’s black pen it was practically engraved. Patrick parsed through the many edits to try and pull together what Pete was saying. 

_i’m good to go, & i’m going nowhere fast_  
_it could be worse_  
_i could be taking you there with me_

Patrick’s breath caught. He glanced over at Pete, who had his eyes closed as he listened, before looking back down at the notebook, a lump in his throat. In the lower right hand corner, in cramped, tiny writing, was one sentence that didn’t go with the rest of the poem. It was crossed out, one line straight through, but Patrick could still read it. 

_if you were church, i’d get on my knees._

Underneath the strikeout, in kind of shaky writing, Pete had written _oh, fuck._

Patrick’s heart felt like it was one million pounds. He wanted to snatch his laptop back and run, run for it and hide from Pete forever, because no. No, this couldn’t be happening, because Pete couldn’t--

Patrick had to be reading too much into this, had to be giving into his stupid, stupid, stupid imagination. These poems could be about anyone, _anything,_ Pete didn’t like Patrick the way Patrick sometimes worried he liked Pete. 

Pete couldn’t. Because the Patrick Pete knew was not the Patrick that was a sex worker. Pete didn’t know about any of that, and Patrick couldn’t keep it secret, didn’t want to, anyway. There was a lump in his throat the size of Mount Everest, a lump that screamed every insult Patrick had ever been called, that repeated every instance of _slut_ and _whore_ and Patrick thought that if he ever heard those in Pete’s voice he might just die. 

But that tiny thing inside Patrick that he always squashed down, the tiny thing that sometimes bugged him incessantly about Travie, the thing that sometimes made his eyes linger too long on the curve of Pete’s jaw or the quiet energy in his eyes--that thing was loud, almost deafening. 

Patrick could hardly ignore the biting words, demanding to know why he wasn’t allowed this, asking why he didn’t just reach out and lay a hand on Pete’s arm, take off the headphones, tell him the poem is _beautiful_ , kiss him--

Patrick _couldn’t._

His hands were shaking a little as Pete slipped off the headphones and looked at him. 

“This isn’t a crappy song,” he said with a frown. Patrick bit back the _oh God, let me kiss you_ and swallowed the words back down. 

“That’s your opinion,” Patrick said, and if his voice was sort of high pitched, Pete didn’t mention it. His eyes danced down to the notebook in front of Patrick, and then back up to Patrick, a little more guarded, the walls a little higher. 

“This is beautiful,” Patrick said, and watched the walls go a little lower again. Pete grinned, and Patrick’s heart beat erratically in his chest. 

“That’s your opinion,” Pete teased, but there was a little worry in his voice, like Patrick’s reaction worried him. 

“It’s a right opinion,” Patrick whispered, and Pete’s breath caught abruptly. He tapped his thumb against Patrick’s laptop and took a deep breath. 

“I’m going to do another slam poetry night,” Pete said. “On Friday night. If you--if you can get off work, I’d--you can come.”

“I can get off work,” Patrick said. “I’d love to come.”

Pete broke out with a grin so blinding Patrick felt a little stunned. 

“It starts at 7:30,” Pete said. “But you should come early, they always fill up when I do them. It’s weird.”

“It’s really not,” Patrick said. “I wish you could read your poetry through my eyes. It’s the best I’ve ever seen.”

Pete ducked his head, but Patrick swore he saw pink on his cheeks. He looked back up at Patrick with a look in his eyes Patrick didn’t want to think about. 

“Can you sing for me sometime?” he asked. “Like, in real life?”

“Oh,” Patrick said. “Yeah. Yeah, I can. If you want.”

“I want,” Pete said, and, like he’d been struck by lightning, Patrick realized that he was utterly and completely fucked. 

\----

Patrick spent entirely too long deciding what the fuck he was going to wear to the coffeeshop. With Pete, working on the album, he usually wore jeans and cycled through various ratty t-shirts and cardigans. 

On the street he wore other stuff, but that was not happening. 

The second he caught himself wondering which shirt Pete would like, he resisted the urge to slap the shit out of himself and grabbed his favorite Bowie shirt. It was so fucking soft, with several holes in the collar, but his cardigan covered those up. Besides, this was an artsy thing, right, so most people probably wore clothes with deliberate holes in them. 

He headed for the door but paused--it was Friday night. The likelihood of seeing any customers at an out-of-the-way coffeeshop hosting a slam poetry night was so slim it was practically laughable, but it was still Friday night. Patrick took pains to never be seen at night unless he was working. Shane taught him a very valuable lesson. 

He tugged open his sad excuse for a wardrobe and rifled around until he found a hat with a brim that he could pull low across his head, just in case, and then took a deep breath. 

He didn’t know if seven was too early or too late, but if he stayed up here a second longer, he would psych himself out of going at all. And he’d _promised_ Pete. 

He locked his apartment door behind him and took the stairs two at a time until he came into the shop, which was _packed._

It was so crowded Patrick felt a little panicky, and even considered running--Pete wouldn’t see him in this madness anyway, right? It was practically claustrophobic. 

Just then, Meagan saw him and waved at him, gesturing for him to go behind the counter and to where she was sitting. 

“I saved you a seat,” she said, beaming, once Patrick had made it to her side. “I figured you wouldn’t realize just how crazy it got.”

“All of them are for Pete?” Patrick asked. Meagan nodded. 

“Some old students,” she said. “Other poets. Fans. Whenever he comes, they all come, too.”

“Because he’s amazing,” Patrick whispered, and Meagan beamed again. 

“Damn right,” she said, then shot him a sideways glance. “He was considering giving it all up.”

“ _No_ ,” Patrick said. 

“Yeah,” Meagan said wryly. “The accident changed him. I assume you’ve found out about it by now.”

Patrick nodded, biting his lip. 

“You haven’t asked him, and that’s what’s important,” Meagan said. “Anyway, since the accident he’s been terrified of people. He was borderline aggressive trying to keep them away. And to keep me happy he came to the shop once a week because I begged him, but it wasn’t until you that I saw him get better.”

“Me?” Patrick asked. Meagan grinned. 

“He never stops talking about you,” she said. “From the moment he met you. I swear. He talks so much about you I’m convinced he follows you around all the time like a puppy dog. Has he bugged you at work yet?”

“No,” Patrick laughed, resisting a shudder. 

“It sounds creepy, I know,” Meagan said. “But really. I thought I’d never get my best friend back. I thought the car accident had taken him away and replaced him with someone I didn’t recognize. But then he spilled coffee on you and it’s like he came back to me. So thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Patrick whispered. 

“You did everything,” Meagan corrected. “It’s okay. You’ll see. One day. I have to calm these wild people down, hang on.”

Meagan hopped off her chair and stepped onto the little platform that constituted a stage, grabbing the mic and tapping it to get everyone’s attention. 

“Hey y’all,” she said, and was met with some applause and a few whistles. Men continued to be awful. “Thanks for coming out. For those who are new, we have a few ground rules.”

“You made it,” Pete whispered into Patrick’s ear as Meagan began listing the rules. Patrick turned and flashed Pete a small grin. 

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he said, not meaning to sound as painfully honest as he did. Pete smiled, eyes absolutely lighting up, and Patrick had to stop himself from kissing Pete. Because _no._

“Thanks,” Pete said softly as Meagan introduced them.

“Kill it,” Patrick said back, and Pete grinned again before taking the stage after Meagan. Patrick could instantly see his anxiety almost triple once everyone’s eyes were on him. He was hunching over again, eyes quickly moving around the audience. He looked seconds from bolting, so Patrick broke his one being-in-public rule and drew attention to himself. 

“Go Pete!” he called, and Pete looked over at him quickly. Patrick could see relief pour across him like a waterfall, so he gave him a grin and a thumbs up. 

Pete took a deep breath and, with what looked like immense force, stood up straighter. His scars were far more visible now than Patrick had ever seen them, and he thanked every God that existed that nobody gasped or did anything else that would shoot Pete’s fragile confidence in the head. 

“Hi, guys,” Pete said. His voice was soft but he spoke clearly, falling into the habit of a poet who performed his work frequently, with diction and enunciation. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long!” someone shouted, and Pete grinned a little, ducking his head before glancing at Patrick, as if he was making sure Patrick was still there. 

“Too long,” Pete agreed. “I promise I’ve been working, though. Do you want to hear some?”

The audience cheered and Patrick clapped with them. He couldn’t help the grin on his own face. Pete was all he could focus on and he didn’t even try to pretend otherwise. 

“So some of these are sad but most of them aren’t,” Pete said. “‘Cause I haven’t been sad lately. You know when you meet someone and they change your whole life? Because I didn’t get that until recently. I’ve spent the past three months with someone who reminded me that life’s actually worth living. And they don’t even get how amazing they are. So I wrote this about them.”

Patrick made sweater paws out of his cardigan and brought one fabric covered knuckle to his mouth, biting on it like the habit he absolutely hated that he couldn’t quit. 

_i don't know where you're going,_  
_but do you got room for one more troubled soul?_  
_i don't know where i'm going,_  
_but I don't think i'm coming home_  
_and i said, i'll check in tomorrow if i don't wake up dead_  
_this is the road to ruin and we're starting at the end_

_let’s be alone together, we can stay young forever_  
_my heart is like a stallion, they love it more when it’s broke in_  
_do you wanna feel beautiful?_

_let’s be alone together, we can stay young forever_

Thunderous applause met the end of the poem and Patrick felt like he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even pretend the poem was about anyone other than him, especially when Pete looked over at him, eyes dark and guarded. 

Patrick flashed him a small smile before he could tell himself not to, punctuating it with a little wave. Pete grinned, running a hand through his hair and glancing from the audience to Patrick like he was considering abandoning the show to sit with him. 

Before tonight, Patrick would have called the notion ridiculous, but now—he wasn’t so sure. 

Pete flipped through his notebook as the crowd died down and cleared his throat. 

“Thanks,” he said. “This next one’s a sad one.”

Patrick sat back, biting his knuckle again, and let Pete’s words wash over him. Meagan dropped an arm around him but he didn’t look at her, afraid that his face would give away everything he was thinking and he would be powerless to stop it. 

Pete kept reading and Patrick kept listening. 

—-

Pete’s eyes were bright and there were a million people clamoring for his attention but it was like nobody existed but Patrick. He was practically vibrating, all fear, all anxiety seemingly forgotten, left behind on that stage, and Patrick grinned up at him. 

“Did you like it?” he asked, grabbing Patrick’s hand. 

“I loved it,” Patrick answered. “I loved every word.”

Pete grinned again, like he couldn’t help it, before squeezing Patrick’s hand and taking a deep breath. 

“If this ruins everything, I’m never gonna forgive myself,” he said, and Patrick was halfway to asking for clarification when Pete cupped his face and kissed him. 

Abruptly, all sound fell away. For all Patrick knew, they were alone, stranded on some deserted island. There was nothing he was aware of, nothing but the way Pete’s hands felt on his face and the way he kissed and how if Patrick didn’t kiss back, he might actually die, so he did. 

He covered Pete’s hands with his own and kissed back. There was a reason he shouldn’t have been doing this, he knew it, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember and didn’t care to try. Pete tasted like coffee and Meagan’s cookies and his nose was digging into Patrick’s cheek. Patrick’s glasses were off-center, pushed to the side by Pete’s whole face, and the only thing going around in Patrick’s head was _oh God, oh God, please never stop._

Because needing air was important, eventually it did stop, and Pete pulled away with wide eyes. Patrick knew his were just as wide, and Pete’s hands were trembling under Patrick’s and he looked so goddamn cute that all Patrick could do was grin at him. 

“Aww,” someone said. The voice sounded familiar. “Is this who your poem was about?”

Patrick fixed his glasses as he turned with Pete to face whoever was speaking. In between one breath and another, Patrick felt like he’d been dunked into a tub of ice water, breath freezing in his chest, heart in his throat. 

Shane took a long sip of his coffee, smirk on his face as his eyes never left Patrick’s. 

Pete slid his hand down Patrick’s side and tangled their fingers together. 

“Yes,” he said shortly, a weirdly protective note in his voice, but Patrick was panicking too hard to focus on that. His heart was racing, banging almost painfully against his ribs and he sent Shane a pleading look. 

He hoped Shane understood it meant Patrick would do anything if Shane walked away. 

“It’s so funny,” Shane said, evidently not receiving the message or maybe not caring. “I know Patrick. From work, right?”

Patrick mouthed _please_ at him and Shane snorted. 

“What’re you doing off tonight?” he asked. “I would think working all you could would be important for you since your accident.”

“Oh my gosh,” a woman said, pressing up along Shane’s side. “Did you get to talk to Mr. Wentz?”

Shane’s confident look morphed into one of panic, like Patrick’s must have been. He looked quickly at her, then at Patrick, and Patrick felt relief hit him square in the stomach. 

He could shut Shane up, at least for right now. 

“We were just meeting,” Pete said, and his voice was ice cold. He must have been picking up on Patrick’s discomfort or something. 

“Who’s this, Shane?” Patrick said, a barely concealed threatening tone in his voice. “Your girlfriend?”

Shane looked like he regretted ever coming over here. 

“Wife, actually,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes. Patrick smirked at Shane. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I never clarified if you were married. My mistake.”

“It’s fine,” the woman said, though she still sounded suspicious. “How do you two know each other?”

“Work,” Shane said abruptly. “And we have to go. Now.”

“But—”

“ _Now.”_

“Bye,” Patrick said as Shane all but fled, wife in tow. Shane sent him a dirty look, but for once, it was Patrick that had all the power. Shane didn’t want his wife to know about his girlfriends and certainly didn’t want her to know how much money he spent on Patrick and Brendon. Patrick took a deep breath.

“I don’t like him,” Pete said, but his voice screamed what sounded like hatred. “He’s—he just seems off.”

“It’s because he’s an asshole,” Patrick said quietly. “I’ve never known him to be even in the realm of a pleasant person.”

Pete scowled. It was a weird reaction—Patrick knew Shane was off putting, but Pete acted like he knew Shane a lot better than he should. 

Patrick squeezed his hand. 

“He’s just a dick,” he said, simplifying everything. Shane was quite a bit more than a dick, but Pete didn’t have to worry about it. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t, really. Patrick realized that Shane would definitely retaliate for that and Patrick dreaded it. 

“Can I,” Pete said haltingly. “Can I kiss you again?”

“Yeah,” Patrick whispered, and the word was barely out of his mouth before Pete ducked in close, kissing Patrick like he might die if he stopped, stealing the air in Patrick’s lungs and the part of Patrick’s heart Patrick avoided. 

This was a bad idea. This was a bad, _bad_ idea. This would end badly and Patrick’s heart would break over it but fuck if he could stop it now. If he was doing it, he was going to enjoy every fucking second of it if it killed him. 

Patrick kissed back, somewhat belatedly, but it didn’t matter. Pete made a satisfied noise and pressed closer, like he was trying to meld Patrick to him forever. Patrick closed his eyes and let himself feel. 

—-

It was two weeks and five days later when Patrick realized he’d saved enough money for the studio time he needed. It came as a kind of wave of relief--those two weeks and five days had been like walking on eggshells, even after telling Travie about Shane’s unexpected visit, because Patrick waited with bated breath every day for the other shoe to drop.

It never did. 

Instead, he met Pete every day. Sometimes they sat together in the shop and worked. Sometimes, Patrick dragged Pete to the park with him, brought him out of the shop. He still wasn’t quite used to this--kissing Pete with zero expectations, being the first to read Pete’s new work, being stared at like Patrick was somehow the best thing Pete had ever seen. 

It was all surreal, but that didn’t stop Patrick from dropping onto the couch in the coffeeshop next to Pete and kissing him with all the breath he had left. 

Pete was grinning at him softly when he pulled away, and to his delight, Patrick noticed Pete’s scarf was off. Patrick grinned back.

“Guess what,” he said. 

“You wrote a new song that I can listen to?” Pete asked hopefully. 

“Sort of?” Patrick said apprehensively. Pete raised an eyebrow and tangled their fingers together. “I booked studio time.”

Pete’s eyes lit up and he sat up straight, grin so bright it was almost blinding. 

“Really?” he asked, and Patrick nodded. “Oh my God. This is the best thing ever. When?”

“Hopefully on Monday,” Patrick said. “And I only get six weeks.”

“Only,” Pete scoffed, and Patrick couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Six weeks is nothing!” he argued. “I’m never gonna finish.”

“I’ll go to the studio and cheerlead for you,” Pete offered, and Patrick blinked in surprise. Was Pete...was Pete offering to go in public with him? Of his own volition? For the first time?

“Really?” Patrick asked, voice wavering. Pete smiled sort of softly at Patrick.

“Yeah,” Pete said. “Only--only if you come to the next slam poetry night.”

“Because you have to bribe me to do that,” Patrick teased, and leaned over to kiss Pete gently. “I’ll come regardless. I’ll always come.”

Pete beamed at Patrick before kissing the back of Patrick’s hand.

“I’m holding you to that,” Pete said. “Don’t let me down.”

“I could never let you down,” Patrick whispered and watched Pete’s eyes shine as he grinned. 

“You should sing,” Pete said, and Patrick frowned a little in confusion. “For me. Like you promised you would.”

“Right now?” Patrick asked, glancing around the shop. It was fairly empty, just he and Pete and Meagan and a couple other customers. He looked back at Pete who looked ridiculously hopeful and bit his lip. 

“Please?” Pete asked. “You don’t have to do it here. We can go to your place.”

Pete immediately flushed at that, eyes widening, and Patrick couldn’t help but giggle a little. 

“Yeah,” he said, tilting his head a little. “My guitars are up there, anyway.”

“You mean it?” Pete asked, a smile taking over his face. Patrick nodded. “Okay. Okay, let’s go.”

Pete was practically vibrating behind Patrick all the way up the stairs. Meagan winked at them as they passed and Patrick rolled his eyes, but smiled fondly. 

“It’s a mess,” he warned, and unlocked his door, pushing it open. He crossed to his guitar immediately, mouth a little dry as he realized that Pete was _in his apartment_ , where Patrick _lived-_ -this was fine. It was _fine._

“It’s nice,” Pete said. Patrick turned to face him, awkwardly cradling the guitar close to him. He swallowed. 

“Thanks,” he said. “You wanna--you wanna sit? All I have is my bed, sorry.”

Pete flushed again and Patrick tried not to laugh. 

He sat, watching Patrick with such an open look of eagerness it almost hurt. Patrick tuned the guitar quickly before taking a deep breath. 

“What do you want to hear?” he asked. 

“Anything,” Pete said, raw honesty in his voice. Patrick’s breath caught. 

“I can’t choose,” he confessed. “I’ll second guess everything.”

“Okay,” Pete said. “Um. Spotlight.”

Patrick’s fingers found the opening chords before he’d really thought about it. 

“Spotlight,” he said, almost a reminder, and before he could chicken out, he began playing. It was way stripped down, obviously, just the guitar and nothing else, but Pete wanted to hear him sing mostly, so whatever. His eyes slipped closed as he began to sing, allowing himself to get half-lost in the music. Every time he played or sang was a time he could find something to make better, something to change. It surrounded him, lifted it up, and it was no time at all before he realized he’d finished. 

He exhaled and opened his eyes again. Pete was staring at him, almost gaping, and Patrick adjusted his grip on the guitar. 

“It’s a little--” Patrick began.

“You’re amazing,” Pete interrupted. “I already knew you were amazing on the album but you’re--you’re even better in real life. How are you not platinum yet?”

Patrick shrugged helplessly. He felt his cheeks heating up and he glanced away, fiddling with the guitar until Pete gently took it and set it on the bed. 

“Patrick,” he said, and Patrick couldn’t help it, he had to look back at Pete. “I don’t think you understand how amazing you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” Patrick said. 

“If I had half the talent you had--”

“But you _do,_ ” Patrick stressed. He scooted over on the bed until he was practically pressed to Pete’s side. “Pete. People flock to the shop to hear your poetry. You could probably sell out theaters to people who would sit for hours and hear your words. I know you would because I’m one of the people that would go. Pete. Believe me.”

“They don’t come to hear my poetry,” Pete said. “They come to gawk at me. I’m the one covered in burn scars. Did you know you’re the first person to ever meet me to not mention them even once?”

“I hardly noticed them,” Patrick said. “You know what I did notice? How fucking hot you are. And then you gave me a poem and I couldn’t believe I’d met someone who could use words like you do. They don’t come to stare. They come to listen.”

Pete stared at Patrick like he desperately, desperately wanted to believe him. His fingers twitched and Patrick gently took his hand. 

“I’m not in the habit of lying, even to cushion people’s feelings,” Patrick said. “You are a great poet, Pete. You shouldn’t hide it from the world.”

“I never wanted to share my work again,” Pete mumbled. “Until I met you.”

Patrick’s breath caught in his throat and he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Pete’s lips. Pete sighed shakily. 

“Why are you with me?” Pete asked, and Patrick frowned. 

“What?” he asked. Pete sighed again. 

“You’re…” Pete said, trailing off before continuing. “You’re so beautiful, Patrick. And I’m--I’m--”

“Hot,” Patrick supplied. “Do you honestly think I care about the scars?”

“Everyone does,” Pete said. “People stare.”

“They can get fucked,” Patrick said firmly. “They don’t change a damn thing about you, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz. You’re still a wonderful human being who’s kind and empathetic and--”

Pete cut him off with a kiss, sloppy and desperate, and Patrick kissed back, grabbing onto Pete’s coat. Pete kissed him like he was trying to make sure Patrick was real, like maybe he thought it was a dream and not reality. 

“Patrick,” Pete said, after they’d pulled apart. “I think I’m dreaming.”

“No, you’re not,” Patrick said, grinning. “You are very awake.”

“I don’t understand,” Pete whispered. 

“Okay,” Patrick said readily. “Let me show you.”

He pulled Pete in again, changing the kiss to something slower, deeper. Pete made a noise as Patrick pulled himself up until he was straddling Pete’s lap. Pete’s trembling hands rested lightly on Patrick’s hips, like he didn’t want to scare Patrick off. 

Patrick pulled away, letting Pete gasp for air as he pressed kisses down the burned side of Pete’s neck. Pete’s fingers dug into his hips a bit and he made a soft noise, but didn’t stop Patrick. 

“Have you done this before?” Patrick asked, and Pete’s breath caught in his throat.

“Before,” he said. “I did it--uh, I did it a lot.”

Patrick grinned before he could help himself. 

“Good, you know what you’re doing,” he said, and it was Pete’s turn to grin a little before an anxious look crossed his face again. 

“You don’t--” he said, before taking a deep breath. “You don’t have to.”

“Do you want to?” Patrick asked. 

“Yes,” Pete said, seemingly before he could stop himself. 

“Good,” Patrick said. “I want to, too. C’mere and touch me.”

Pete reached out hesitantly, hands shaking a little, and spread his hand across Patrick’s stomach, Patrick kissed him again before leaning back a little in order to take off his shirt. 

Pete swallowed. 

“Would it help if I told you I’m a slut?” Patrick asked. “Because I am. I’ve totally done this like a million times.”

“You’re not a slut,” Pete said, surprisingly forcefully. “Because slut is a made up word. Having a lot of sex doesn’t mean anything.”

Patrick grinned a little and kissed Pete again. Finally, Pete’s arms wrapped around him and the kiss deepened. Pete gasped into Patrick’s mouth as Patrick shifted his hips, inadvertently grinding against Pete’s hard cock. 

“Oh, fuck,” Pete said, voice wavering, and Patrick tugged on Pete’s shirt until it was off. He ran his hands down Pete’s chest almost greedily. The burn scar continued down his side, interrupting and twisting ink on his skin, turning it into a sort of kaleidoscope decorating Pete’s body, and it was the complete opposite of ugly. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Patrick said, and kissed Pete before he could object. His hands were everywhere--cupping Pete’s face, tangled in Pete’s hair, running down Pete’s chest and back and sides. He moved his hips, deliberately this time, and Pete moaned. It was the hottest thing Patrick had ever heard. 

“Do you want me to blow you?” Patrick asked. “Or do you want to fuck me?”

“Oh, fuck,” Pete panted. “You can’t just say that, I’m going to come in my pants.”

Patrick grinned.

“I’m not that good,” he said, and Pete just kissed him before pushing him off his lap and onto his back. 

“Let me,” he said. “Let me look at you.”

Patrick let him, biting his lip as Pete just stared, before Pete kissed him hard. 

“God,” he breathed. “How on Earth did I find you again?”

“Coffee,” Patrick teased. “You spilled it on me.”

“Thank God,” Pete said, and yanked Patrick’s pants off. “Do you have--”

“Yeah,” Patrick gasped. “Uh, let me see.”

He reached into the drawer by his bed and felt around until he found a condom and another pocket sized bottle of lube, which he pressed into Pete’s hands. 

Pete really did know what he was doing because it was no time at all before Patrick was gasping and digging his nails into Pete’s shoulder. For once, Pete seemed to forget about the scars or his insecurities--everything was focused on Patrick, watching him with wide, dark eyes as he made Patrick come apart underneath him. 

“Pete,” Patrick gasped. “C’mon, c’mon Pete, please--”

The first push of Pete into Patrick was quite literally breathtaking. Patrick kissed Pete messily, panting hard as Pete began thrusting. 

Patrick was hardly aware of anything leaving his mouth--it was probably just a litany of _please, please, Pete, please_ , and Pete seemed just as strung out as Patrick. He was getting erratic, and as his rhythm faltered, Patrick stroked himself once, twice--

Pete swore and came exactly when Patrick did, collapsing heavily onto Patrick. Patrick kissed up Pete’s neck to his temple and grinned, breath slowly coming back to him. 

“Do you believe me now?” he asked, and Pete just kissed him hard.

\----

“I can’t believe you’re leaving us,” Brendon pouted, and Patrick laughed. 

“I’m recording an album,” he corrected. “I’ll still have to work. I can’t believe _you’re_ leaving us. I’m so proud of you.”

Brendon shrugged. 

“He promised to let me get a real job,” Brendon said. “And to pay for my own transition. And to _not_ baby me. And he said he loves me.”

“Because he does,” Andy supplied, and Brendon rolled his eyes. 

“So I’m going to college, so what,” Brendon said defensively. “If you think that means I won’t meet you in the daylight you’re dead wrong.”

Joe laughed. 

“It’s your turn,” Patrick said. “What’s your good news?”

Andy and Joe exchanged a look before breaking out into identical smiles. 

“Well, we signed a lease,” Joe said, and Patrick smacked his arm. “We were gonna tell you! They’re renovating so it’ll be a couple months before we can move on anything, but. It’s really happening.”

“I told you,” Patrick told Andy, and Andy kissed his forehead.

“You did,” he admitted. “I should have listened to you. You’re usually right.”

“I know,” Patrick said proudly. “Hey, Kingston’s back.”

Patrick and Andy waved, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Kingston waved back. Patrick grinned and took a deep breath of the cold air. It wasn’t as cold as it had been--the snow had stopped falling a few weeks ago. Maybe spring would come on time to the city. Patrick somehow doubted it, but it was a nice thought. 

“Patrick has a boyfriend,” Andy said, and Patrick groaned. 

“ _Andy_ ,” he complained, even as Brendon’s eyes got huge. “It won’t last.”

“You’re such a pessimist,” Andy said. “How do you know?”

“Uh,” Patrick said sarcastically. “Here I am. At work. Which he doesn’t know about.”

“Pete hardly strikes me as the type to care,” Andy said. “I think you’re being deliberately delusional. Pete writes about you like you hung the fucking moon. I think it’ll take something catastrophic to get him to change his mind.”

“Right,” Patrick said doubtfully, but he couldn’t help the desperate hope. There was nothing wrong with what he did, Patrick firmly believed that, but that wasn’t most people’s opinion. He was very aware of that.

“I think so,” Andy said. “Plus you’re like. Hella fucking hot.”

“Babe,” Joe said. “I love ya. Never say hella again.”

Brendon laughed and Andy pretended to smack Joe until all three were laughing, Patrick giggling along until his eyes fell on the end of the street. Barely out of sight, easy to miss if Patrick wasn’t constantly aware, was a white car with a telltale blue stripe.

Patrick’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Cops,” he snapped, and all three of them looked around, scanning the street. Brendon looked behind Patrick and paled. 

“Behind you,” he hissed, grabbing Patrick’s hand. “They’ve surrounded us.”

“They know,” Joe said. “Someone tipped them off. The second they realize we know, they’ll come down on us.”

“We have to separate,” Andy said, calm like Andy somehow always was. “If they have to spread out, it’s less likely we’ll be caught. Group text in an hour, if someone doesn’t respond it means they’ve been arrested.”

“If you’re arrested, don’t talk,” Patrick said, and squeezed Brendon’s hand. “All they can do is hold you for the maximum. They can’t prove we were soliciting. Nothing will stick.”

“What’s the maximum again?” Brendon asked fearfully. 

“Forty eight hours,” Andy said. “It’s nothing.”

“Uh,” Patrick said. “Except it’s the weekend.”

“They could possibly hold you until Wednesday,” Andy acknowledged. “But they won’t catch us. Alright?”

“Where do we go?” Brendon asked. He was clinging to Patrick like his life depended on it and Patrick remembered with sudden clarity that Brendon had been through this before, except he was convicted when he was just eighteen. Brendon didn’t talk about his six months in prison and nobody asked, but based on the look on Brendon’s face, it wasn’t pleasant.

“You’re gonna get on the CTA, B,” Patrick ordered. “And you’re gonna go straight home. You’ll be fine.”

“And you?” Brendon asked. Patrick looked at Andy. 

“Me down that way,” Andy said, inclining his head towards the cop car Patrick saw. “Joe down that way and Patrick down the alley and over the fence. We run a lot faster than you, Patrick, but you can climb. It’ll be _fine_. Count of three, okay?”

“Okay,” Patrick said, and Joe nodded. 

“One,” Andy began. “Two. _Three.”_

Patrick shoved Brendon hard towards the subway stairs before taking off down the alley. Immediately and predictably, sirens went off from both ends and the street was washed in red and blue. Patrick’s heartrate increased by at least a thousand percent as the cops started shouting, but he pushed on anyway, making it to the fence and hauling himself over it. 

The alley on the other side was dark and Patrick knew they wouldn’t see him without flashlights, giving him a narrow window of opportunity to get out of this place immediately. He made it to the end, glanced around, and set off at a brisk pace towards the MTA entrance. Fifty feet. Thirty feet. 

“Freeze,” someone said from behind him, and Patrick knew it was too late. He swore loudly and creatively in his head but obeyed, putting his hands up preemptively as the officer circled around him. 

“You know there are real jobs, right?” the officer sneered. “You don’t have to be a whore.”

Patrick kept his mouth shut. 

“Or maybe you do,” the officer smirked. “Didn’t your daddy love you enough? Is that why you sell yourself for money?”

It was a close thing, but Patrick managed to still keep his mouth shut and the officer scowled before grabbing Patrick’s wrists much harder than he needed to. 

“You’re under arrest for solicitation,” the officer snapped. “You have the right to remain silent.”

Patrick let the rest of his Miranda rights wash over him. He’d heard them before. Twice before, and nothing stuck then, either. It wouldn’t stick this time, but it sure was fucking inconvenient. The officer pushed him towards the car Patrick missed seeing and Patrick took a deep breath. 

Hopefully Brendon got away.

\---

Patrick’s hopes for Travie to not be on duty tonight were shattered as they walked through the doors of the station. There weren’t very many people in the building, just a couple of paper pushers and four officers, who all turned as the officer pushed Patrick through the door. 

“Got a whore!” he said, and two of the officers cheered. Travie, though, looked crushed. He mouthed _fuck_ and Patrick grimaced. “What’s wrong, Hayley?”

“You don’t have to be a dick,” the only female officer snapped. “Just process him and put him in holdings.”

“Aww,” Patrick’s arresting officer taunted. “You wanna try and save this one, honey? You and your big heart?”

“That’s enough,” Travie said sharply, and the other two officers shuffled away uncomfortably. “You don’t need to attack her every time. She’s right. Process him. And don’t be a dick, fuck.”

“Yeah, Sarge,” the asshole that arrested Patrick said, somewhat subdued. Patrick let himself get pushed to processing, going through the motions kind of numbly. They took his fingerprints and his stupid mugshot and loudly announced that this was Patrick’s _third_ arrest, wow. Patrick bit back the and no convictions taunt he wanted to make back and finally, got shoved into a holding cell where the officer they called Hayley very gently took off his handcuffs. 

“I’m sorry they’re assholes,” she said softly. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“To go home,” Patrick said, raising an eyebrow. Hayley sighed. 

“The Sergeant is sympathetic, too,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll try his best.”

Patrick didn’t say anything, and Hayley sighed again. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard it before,” she said. “But there’s help if you need it.”

“I don’t,” Patrick said, then forced himself to continue through gritted teeth. “But thank you.”

Hayley nodded and walked out of the holding area. Patrick let out a deep breath and leaned his head against the wall. It had been about an hour and Patrick’s phone was sitting wherever the fuck they took his things, so the others probably knew by now. Not that they could do anything. 

Patrick’s bail was a thousand, which he definitely didn’t have lying around. That meant he’d be here until Wednesday, probably, which meant he’d be two days behind once he got his ass to recording, which meant more of a time crunch. Pete would laugh at him.

Patrick’s heart stopped.

Oh, fuck. 

Pete. 

The last two times Patrick found himself in this situation he didn’t have a single person that would worry about him, but now he had Pete, and Meagan, and disappearing for four days would create a five alarm problem. And Patrick couldn’t tell them he’d been arrested, not without telling them why, which he couldn’t do. It would change everything, no matter what Andy said. Patrick refused to feel guilty or ashamed but--but he didn’t know how Pete would make him feel.

He was jerked out of his spiraling panic by the door to the holding cells sliding open again.

“Hey hooker,” the asshole cop said. “Got your friend.”

Patrick met Andy’s eyes, keeping his face expressionless even as his heart sank. Two out of four. Did they really manage to get two out of four? Fuck, either the cops were good or the tip was detailed. 

Patrick didn’t have to wonder too hard. Shane was most certainly behind this. 

The asshole pushed Andy into the same cell as Patrick, clanging the metal door shut with more force than was necessary. 

“Y’all gonna make bail or will I see your lovely faces all weekend?” he asked. “It doesn’t get so nice around here when the Sarge isn’t here. And he has the weekend off. Better start praying someone misses you, but I doubt anyone will.”

The officer didn’t even give them a chance to react, just laughed and slammed the main door, leaving Andy and Patrick in silence. 

“Well,” Andy said, breaking the silence. “Fuck.”

“Do you know about anyone else?” Patrick asked. Andy sighed. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Joe got home and so did Brendon. My dumb ass doubled back to check on you.”

“You _are_ dumb,” Patrick said, but there was no real heat in it. “Is Joe gonna come?”

“Hope so,” Andy said. “You?”

Patrick shrugged a shoulder.

“It won’t be so bad,” he said with a good attempt at bravado. “I know I’m walking free at the end. And this is Travie’s station.”

“Still,” Andy said, and Patrick rested his head on Andy’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

“I know,” Patrick said quietly, and wished he could believe it.

\---

The sun was rising and he and Andy were just drifting off when the main door banged open and a cop whistled loudly, practically rupturing Patrick’s eardrums. Patrick groaned and squinted at the cop. His eyes were dry as fuck, but he had no place to put his contacts so he just had to suck it up. 

“Hey sluts,” the same asshole officer said brightly. “Looks like you won’t be making my weekend fun after all. You both made bail. Get up.”

Patrick had never been more confused but he certainly wasn’t staying here a second longer, so he obeyed, walking past the cop when he opened the cell door and following Andy to the processing room. 

Hayley handed Patrick his phone with an earnest look. He tried his best to smile at her, but he was pretty sure it fell flat. 

“If you ever need anything, reach out,” she said. “Please.”

Patrick wouldn’t.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he lied. He glanced up through the glass window of the processing desk and met Joe’s eyes. Joe grimaced and Patrick gave him a little half-shrug--what could he do?

He heard Andy’s voice, muffled.

“Hey,” he said softly. 

“Hey yourself,” Joe replied, but the sheer thankfulness in his voice was almost too painful to listen to. Patrick rolled his shoulders, wondering what in the fuck he was about to walk into. Had Joe bailed him out, too? No, he looked surprised to see Patrick there. Had Travie? Surely not. Career suicide. 

He sighed, pocketing his phone and scrubbing a hand across his face before walking through the door Hayley held open for him and stopping dead in his tracks. 

“Hi,” Pete said, voice quiet. 

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick said.

\----

Patrick stayed silent the entire way back home. He followed Pete because he had no other choice, because Pete mostly followed _him._ He felt sick, genuinely and completely sick, like he was going to pass the fuck out. It was hard to breathe. He kept opening his mouth before shutting it before opening it again until he finally just froze in place.

Pete paused, too, and turned to look at him. 

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. He was shaking a little. “Pete. I’m _sorry.”_

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Pete said. 

“I can and I will pay you back,” Patrick said. 

“You don’t have to,” Pete stressed. “You really don’t.”

“Do you--” Patrick said, faltering for a moment before continuing. “Do you know why I was arrested?”

“Yes,” Pete said calmly. “Do you think I care?”

“Uh,” Patrick said, not sure if it was a joke. “Yes?”

“Why?”

“ _Why?”_ Patrick asked in disbelief. “You must not really know why I was arrested.”

“Solicitation,” Pete said, and Patrick flinched. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” Patrick said. “If you know, why are you saying you don’t care?”

“Because I don’t,” Pete shrugged. “People who do aren’t worth your time.”

“I’m a hooker,” Patrick said.

“Sex worker,” Pete said calmly. “That’s the word you used before, anyway.”

“Before?” Patrick asked. Pete sighed. 

“I thought you’d figured it out when you used my full name,” Pete said. “I started watching the corner because I was afraid for all of your safety. Then you actually noticed me.”

“Wait,” Patrick said. “Wait, so. You-- _You’re_ Kingston?”

“Yeah,” Pete said uncomfortably.

“And,” Patrick said. “And you knew me before we met in the shop?”

“No,” Pete said. “It actually took me a couple times to put it together.”

Patrick stared at Pete for a long moment. 

“You’re telling me you watched me work for _months,”_ Patrick said. “And you still claim to not care that I have sex with strangers for a living?”

“I don’t claim,” Pete said. “I genuinely don’t care. The only time I even remotely cared is when you got hurt.”

“Shane,” Patrick said. Pete shrugged. 

“And even then,” Pete said. “I only _cared_ that you got hurt. I don’t _judge_ you. I get judged enough to know how it feels.”

“You think you don’t care,” Patrick said. “Wait until someone finds my arrest record. Wait until you become the one with the hooker boyfriend. You’ll start caring then.”

“I won’t,” Pete said. 

“ _Everybody_ does!” Patrick said. “Everyone! Even the ones that hire me seem to think that I’m below them, even though they _hired me_. You think you don’t care now because you haven’t had One Million Moms come down on you yet.”

“Patrick,” Pete said. 

“I’ll pay you back,” Patrick said, fighting tears. “Please don’t hate me.”

“I don’t,” Pete said helplessly, but Patrick made himself turn around, made himself climb the outside stairs, made himself leave.

He didn’t cry until the door shut behind him.

\----

Days seemed completely fucking empty without Pete. 

Patrick stayed home when he wasn’t in the studio. He tried throwing everything he had into recording, but it felt hollow and empty. He kept looking around, expecting to see Pete, _needing_ to see Pete, but Pete wasn’t there. 

He didn’t work, couldn’t anyway, not until they threw out the arrest. It usually took a couple weeks. A few times he saw Brendon, once he saw Andy and Joe at their new bar, but the rest of the time was him and his music and his broken fucking heart. 

He hadn’t set foot in the coffeeshop at all, taking his outside exit every time. He didn’t really know what to expect. Meagan was Pete’s best friend. Patrick was surprised he hadn’t been evicted yet. 

He was supposed to record _Explode_ tomorrow but it still wasn’t fucking right. Patrick had been working on it since he got home from the studio, which was at least four hours ago. His fingers were actually throbbing from the strings of his guitar, but it wasn’t _right_. Patrick refused to record a song that wasn’t right, but he didn’t have a lot of wiggle room in the schedule.

Of course, that was when a knock on his door interrupted him. He looked up and frowned.

Who in the actual fuck was bothering him now?

They knocked again and Patrick sighed, setting his guitar down and reluctantly opening the door.

“Oh,” he said. “Hi, Meagan.”

Meagan scowled. She looked furious and Patrick hoped she wasn’t kicking him out. That would really suck. 

“Let me in,” she snapped, and Patrick stepped to the side. 

She practically slammed the door behind her and whirled on Patrick. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she demanded, and Patrick shrugged. 

“A lot,” he said honestly. “Be more specific.”

“Specific,” Meagan scoffed. “Because you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about, you complete asshole.”

“Pete can’t come tell me this himself?” Patrick asked. 

“I could fucking deck you,” Meagan said. “And the only reason I’m not is that I know that response was a defense mechanism. Fuck you. You’re just as upset. Are you really going to let this ruin you?”

“You don’t know what happened,” Patrick snapped. 

“You got arrested for solicitation and Pete bailed you out,” Meagan replied. “And before you open your mouth, I don’t care that you’re a sex worker, either. I’ve known you were since you moved in. And the fact that you think we care is almost insulting. What kind of people do you take us for?”

Patrick stayed silent as Meagan took a deep breath.

“Look,” she said. “We all have shit in our life people could judge us for. Every one of us. And I’ve been trying to tell Pete to not let assholes who judge him run his life. And you were helping with that. And then you didn’t take your own damn advice and decided to what, be a shut in? Patrick. Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. 

“Yeah?” Meagan asked. “Act like it.”

“I don’t want Pete to have to be the one with _me_ for a boyfriend,” Patrick said. 

“Asshole,” Meagan snapped. “Pete’s a big boy who can make his own decisions. And he likes you, fucker. Likes you enough to come back to poetry, likes you enough to be in public again, _likes you.”_

“Why?” Patrick asked. 

“At the moment, I’m stumped,” Meagan scowled. 

Patrick sighed. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he said. 

“Prove it,” Meagan challenged. “Did you know slam poetry is tonight?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. 

“I heard you tell Pete you’d never disappoint him and you’d always come,” Meagan said. 

“He doesn’t want me there,” Patrick protested. 

“Have you been listening to a damn word I’ve said?” Meagan asked, exasperated. “He does too. Now. Are you the kind of person who goes back on their word?”

“No,” Patrick said.

“Oh, good,” Meagan said. “You have some values after all. So I expect to see you down there, asshole.”

“What time?” Patrick said. Meagan scoffed. 

“Seven,” she said. “Not a fucking second after.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. 

“I mean it,” Meagan warned. “If you don’t come, I will evict you. Make the right choice.”

“Okay,” Patrick said again, and, with one final glare, Meagan turned and stormed out Patrick’s door, slamming it behind her. 

Patrick stared at the door for a long moment before turning and walking numbly back towards his bed. 

He was seeing Pete tonight. 

Oh _fuck._

\----

Meagan was staring at the door like she knew Patrick would cave. She still looked unimpressed by Patrick’s whole existence, but Patrick was unimpressed by himself, too, so he couldn’t fault her. She jerked her head and he made his way to her seat, hands in his pockets. 

“I understand you’re afraid,” she said, and her tone was much nicer than it had been when she’d dressed him down. “A lot has happened to you lately. I understand having us know about you is scary. But fuck. You’ve made Pete throw all his fears out the window, so it’s your turn now.”

“I know,” Patrick said, and Meagan gave him a half smile. 

“Sit,” she ordered. “Sit and listen to every one of the poems he wrote since you abandoned him.”

“I’m an asshole,” Patrick said. 

“Redeem yourself,” Meagan said threateningly. Patrick nodded and let her drag him down to his seat. 

The noise of the crowd died down as Pete took the stage. He didn’t see Patrick, but Patrick squirmed uncomfortably anyway until Meagan’s sharp nails stilled him. 

“Hi guys,” Pete said. He was subdued and Patrick’s heart _ached._ “I’ve written more and it’s all sad. Sorry. I’ll get it over with quickly. This is _Favorite Record._ ”

_i can’t remember just how to forget_

_you were the song stuck in my head_  
_every song i’ve ever loved_  
_played again and again and again_  
_you can get what you want but it’s never enough_  
_and i’ll spin for you like your favorite records used to_

_do you remember?_

Patrick covered his face as Pete finished, and Meagan actually put her arm around him and squeezed. 

“Everything he wrote is heartbreaking,” she said. “He doesn’t think you’re here. Fucking fix this. You’re miserable, too.”

Patrick looked at her, feeling tears make a lump in his throat, and looked quickly back at the stage as Pete spoke again. 

“I don’t usually do this,” he said. “But does anyone have any requests?”

The shouts from the audience were bordering on deafening. Patrick looked back at Meagan and took a deep breath before pushing her arm off him and standing. 

He got as close to the stage as he could, looking up at Pete, framed in the soft light of the coffeeshop. He was so fucking beautiful. Patrick missed him. Patrick missed him _so much._

He took another deep breath. 

“Saturday,” he said, and Pete jerked like he’d been shot. He took several steps back before turning to face Patrick. His eyes were wide and he was clutching the mic stand for what looked like dear life, and suddenly, everything else faded away. It was just Patrick and Pete and Patrick wasn’t as good with words as Pete was but fuck, he had to say something. 

“You came,” Pete said hoarsely. 

“I said I would,” Patrick replied. His voice sounded tiny. “I meant it.”

“I thought you hated me,” Pete said. 

“I thought you hated _me_ ,” Patrick echoed, and Pete shook his head almost violently. 

“I couldn’t,” he said. “I couldn’t _ever.”_

“I couldn’t figure out why you bailed me out of jail,” Patrick said. “I couldn’t figure out why you weren’t reacting the way that everyone had always reacted when they found out about me. I didn’t want to hear you tell me goodbye, so I hid.”

“No,” Pete said desperately. “No, no, I never want to tell you goodbye, Patrick, no.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispered, and Pete stumbled over to him, hopping off the stage and cradling Patrick’s face with shaking hands. 

“You mean it?” Pete asked, and Patrick nodded as best he could. 

“Every word,” he said, and Pete kissed him. 

Vaguely, he heard the crowd literally coo, but he couldn’t possibly care less. He kissed Pete back, tried to pour everything Pete had ever made him feel into it, tried to pour himself into it. 

Pete pulled away, breathless, and met Patrick’s eyes. 

“Saturday?” he asked, and Patrick nodded, biting his lip. 

“Saturday,” he said, and Pete squeezed his hand. 

“Okay,” he said. “Don’t--wait for me?”

“Not going anywhere,” Patrick said, and Pete finally let go, stepping back onstage and back up to the mic. 

“So my boyfriend’s back,” Pete said, and the crowd laughed. “So no more sad shit. Okay? This is Saturday.”

Pete glanced at Patrick and took a deep breath. Patrick grinned back before sitting next to Meagan again and listening. 

_i’m good to go & i’m going nowhere fast_  
_it could be worse_  
_i could be taking you there with me_

_two more weeks_  
_my foot is in the door and_  
_i can’t sleep_  
_in the wake of saturday_

\----

**coda.**

Patrick woke up to soft kisses down his neck. He groaned and Pete laughed. 

“Spotlight’s on the radio,” he said, and Patrick glared blearily. 

“Not a good enough reason to wake me up,” he grouched, but let Pete kiss him. 

“Your music on the radio is a great reason to wake up,” Pete countered playfully. 

“I’m so in love with you,” Patrick said. Pete beamed, the way he always did when Patrick said it, every time he’d said it for the past year-- the whirlwind of a past year. 

“Joe and Andy called to make sure you were coming tonight,” Pete said, ruining his attempts to wake Patrick up by curling around him. “You smell good.”

“I don’t want their party,” Patrick lied. “And no I do not.”

“Do too,” Pete countered. “I’ll come.”

“You?” Patrick said. “You’re a recluse, remember? Adds to the aesthetic of Mania.”

“I’ll come anywhere with you,” Pete mumbled, and Patrick twisted in his arms to kiss him. “Besides. I have to show off my _Grammy-winning_ boyfriend.”

“Rub it in,” Patrick said, but he was grinning. “Do I have any other messages?”

“I’m not your secretary,” Pete protested. 

“No, but you’ve clearly already checked my phone,” Patrick smirked. Pete sighed. 

“The lady from Rolling Stone called,” Pete said, and Patrick could _hear_ the scowl.

“It’s not her fault,” Patrick said gently. 

“I know,” Pete groused. “I’m mad you have to deal with it at all.”

“Arrest records are public information,” Patrick shrugged. “It was bound to happen eventually.”

“Are you sure you want to do an interview about it though?” Pete asked, worried. 

“It’s better to get it over with,” Patrick said. “And she was the nicest one. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“We’ve had this conversation,” Pete said. “I will never mind. I just don’t want people to judge you.”

Patrick kissed him.

“I used to live above a coffeeshop,” he said, pulling away. “And the owner chewed me out one time. She said to not let assholes that judge you run your life.”

“She sounds smart,” Pete mused. Patrick grinned and kissed him again. 

“Will you really come to my stupid Grammy party?” Patrick asked, and Pete smiled softly at him. 

“Of course,” he said. “People are pissed you’re not having it in like, LA. I’d love to piss them off more.”

“Spoken like a true artist,” Patrick said. Pete grinned. 

“Now that you’re up,” he said. “Will you sing to me?”

“Ah,” Patrick said. “Your true motivations become clear.”

“Is that a yes?” Pete asked hopefully. Patrick rolled his eyes fondly. 

“What do you want me to sing?” Patrick asked. 

“Saturday,” Pete said. 

“Those are your words,” Patrick pointed out. 

“In your voice,” Pete said stubbornly. “Saturday.”

Patrick couldn’t help but smile at that. 

“Okay,” he said, and Pete curled up closer. Patrick cleared his throat and began to sing. 

_I’m good to go_  
_And I’m going nowhere fast_  
_It could be worse I could be taking you there with me_

_I’m good to go._

\----

**Author's Note:**

> if you would like to yell, cry, or virtually shake me, i am located on the dark nets @ smalltalktorture.tumblr.com


End file.
